


home to you

by awaitingyourcall



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types, The Outsiders - S. E. Hinton
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Best Friends, Brothers, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Depression, F/M, Foster Care, Friendship, Gen, I think that's it - Freeform, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Loss of Parent(s), Loss of Trust, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Moving, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serious, Serious Injuries, sorry ahead of time, thanks for reading
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19709335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awaitingyourcall/pseuds/awaitingyourcall
Summary: “Are you okay, Pone?” Darry asks, leaning his head down to follow Ponyboy’s glazed stare. “You sleep okay?”He bites his lip. Stiffens, straightens his posture. “Just fine,” he says, voice cracking down the middle. Clears his throat. “I promise, Dar. It just ain’t home.”





	1. fog lifts from the harbor

**Author's Note:**

> hi, uh, not sure if anyone will read this or like it. just been thinking a lot recently about the outsiders. feels like in the midst of all the loss in my life that this is a constant i can rely on. 
> 
> unfortunately, since i am miserable, so is this story for awhile.
> 
> in lighter news, this story does get better. it's a long journey and for once in my life i think i have material i can spin into multiple chapters. you guys might even like this one. 
> 
> anyways, please, please be safe. this is not suitable for minors in later chapters, as there will be references to non-con, abuse of a minor, child abuse, and domestic abuse. alcoholism, some drug use. that's why i've marked it mature, to help warn some of you ahead of time.
> 
> it's not the darkest thing i've ever written but please be safe regardless. hope you have a good read! 
> 
> also, the title of the story and the names of the chapters are based off of one of my favorite mountain goats songs! sax rohmer #1. also i don't hate anyone to double check this for me so please excuse any mistakes. i've gone over it a bunch but my brain is probably missing a lot. i'll be checking a lot to fix them. 
> 
> i do not own these characters or the song! wish i was that creative though.

After all this time, Ponyboy never thought Darry would lose.

It’d often been a thought in the back of his mind. A niggling, vicious, horrible feeling that sometimes left him anxious and irritable. But Darry had fought for him, for Sodapop, so _hard_. Won custody and became their legal guardian. Ponyboy still remembers finding out in the hospital lobby, his knees tucked up on the chair. Remembers when Darry gave up everything for them.

-

They tell him to pack his bags. Ponyboy’s almost 15 and numb, and Sodapop’s 18 now. They can’t touch this Curtis brother.

So it’s Ponyboy who barely stuffs his suitcase. Ponyboy who walks out that door knowing he can't bolt back inside, Darry and Soda both at his shoulders.

“It really is what’s best for him,” Mr. Harrison smiles.

Darry’s jaw thumps, his face pale. Hands in his pockets so he doesn’t deck this man into next week. “No,” he says, tightly. “It’s not.”

“What about school?” Sodapop asks. He’s irritated but he’s keeping his temper on a leash. Ponyboy looks at him, trying not to cry. Studies him in case it’s more than a week before they next see each other. “He goes to Will Rogers. It’s close.”

“There’s a school at the boy’s home,” Mr. Harrison waves him off. “Plenty of boys his age, some older, some younger. _Variety_. A new scene, if you will.”

“I like my school,” Ponyboy says quietly. It’s a lie and he knows his brothers see through it, but Mr. Harrison doesn’t. He hates it, in fact, because here there are socs and greasers. The same inevitable class division he’s known his entire life. But it’s _here._ At home with his family.

“I understand,” Mr. Harrison says, even though he doesn’t.

The empty feeling in him grows. Mr. Harrison pops the trunk, tells him to put his things in the van.

They get five minutes to say goodbye. At this point Ponyboy still believes they’ll win. Tells Darry and Sodapop he’ll be waiting. Darry tells him resolutely he’ll get him home as soon as he can. Soda’s earnest, hanging on to every word their older brother says.

“I love you, kiddo,” Soda says, squeezing him too tight. Darry’s too rough with him like always but it just makes Pony hug him harder. None of them want to let go and standing on the sidewalk he feels very small.

Looking up at them, he says, “Soon, Darry. Please.”

“I promise,” Darry says. “I’ll get you back, I swear it.”

When he’s forced to leave, Mr. Harrison wants to make conversation. He’s not an unkind man it seems but he truly could care less about Ponyboy. He’s a minion to the State and Ponyboy can do nothing about it. Nothing he can do will ever change his mind.

“How long have you been under Darrel’s care?” He asks, steering towards the boy’s home.

Ponyboy doesn’t answer for a long time. At last, leaving their neighborhood, he says, “forever.”

-

Sodapop’s streaming face. Darry’s reassuring, but numb voice. The way he’d sat limply in a chair across from them, one hand supporting his head. He'd looked ancient and Ponyboy had stared at his brothers, gaze darting back and forth between them. 

“What are we goin’ do?” Ponyboy remembers asking. His legs were cramping in the stupid hospital chair but he’d rather have that pain over the one in his chest. “Where are we gonna go?”

Soda had clung to him. Pressed himself so tight against Ponyboy he’d thought they were one. Sometimes he wishes they were. Things would be easier that way.

“They can’t split us up, right, Dar?” Soda was worrying his lip. Asking the questions none of them had the strength for. Then more hesitantly, “...Right?”

“I’ll take care of you now,” Darry said, and almost as an afterthought, “I got custody. That’s where I’ve been the past several hours. They’ll let me take care of you guys now.”

Soda’s glare, the way he’d been angry but not at Darry. At the State, upset they’d been forced to run to them. At their parents for dying, even though it hadn’t been their fault and Ponyboy was supposed to go with them.

“This isn’t fair!” He’d cried. He’d practically pulled Pony in his lap at this point, and Pony’d thrown his arms around his neck, face buried in his chest. Soda smelled like home. Soda always smells like home. “Darry, what about school? Your scholarship.”

Darry was quiet, thumbing a loose string on his pants. Silent. Then: “I’m gonna put it on hold for a bit. It doesn’t matter right now.”

Ponyboy remembers feeling strangely and wholly guilty. How he stared at Darry, who could go so far. Darry who works too hard already. Thinking, _it does. It means everything._

-

The boy’s home’s fine. Except it isn’t.

At the door they take his suitcase and pilfer through it, taking his cigarettes and lighter. They ask if he has anything sharp and he has half a mind to keep his switchblade.

But he forks it over. They’d find it later anyways and accuse him of lying or trying to hurt someone, maybe even himself. Ponyboy’s upset but he’s not suicidal.

He catches the woman checking his bag roll her eyes, listens to her snort. Something muttered about hoodlums under her breath.

Ponyboy likes her, honestly. Nothing feels better than being torn from your brothers’ arms and then being thrown in a boy’s home in one day. Everything Darry fought to avoid in the gutter. What Sodapop feared manifesting into a physical threat. What Ponyboy knew was a long time coming hitting him with the strength of an 18-wheeler. And now this woman who calls herself Ms. Hord, who has already decided who he is, is just the cherry on top.

Feeling lousy, he heads towards his room, passing through what feels like an endless stream of boys without homes. Boys who prefer living here over living there. Boys who he know would kill to be here. He is an outsider here, too.

A security guard who calls himself Mr. Mark shows him which bed is his own.

Curfew doesn’t exist here, because they don’t get to leave. Ponyboy curls up by the window in a rotting wooden chair and stares at the high gates, black metal upon red brick. They don’t even get to go _outside_. Too much influence in the world, Ms. Hord had said. Too much access to young boy’s who’d hang onto every word. Pony thinks maybe she's delusional.

“You’re new here,” someone says.

When Ponyboy looks over he rubs a hand down his face, unsure if his eyes are red or not. Despite himself, he’d cried the entire ride here.

There’s a boy. Much older than him, he thinks. Maybe Sodapop’s age, which makes something in his heart spasm. Wild haired like Dally but dark like Johnny’s, like Steve’s. Something in the shape of his face that feels strangely like it belongs to Two-Bit only.

But eyes like Darry. Not in color but in element, in texture. Solid, crystal clear ice.

“ _I said,_ you’re new here,” the kid repeats, like he’s deaf or dumb. “What’s your name?”

“Ponyboy,” he says, waiting for the usual snickers. He doesn’t feel up for the string of explanations, so he says quickly, “You?”

“Jim,” he says. “They keep tryin’ to call me Jimmy even after all this time. I hate that.”

Ponyboy nods, loosens the white knuckled grip he has on his curled up knees. Lowers his feet to the floor and watches Jim flop down on the bed beside him.

“Why’re you here?” Jim asks. He’s fiddling with something in his hands, gripping it, twirling it like a butterfly knife. Long like a fresh pencil but rounded at both ends, cylindrical in a sense: silver. When Ponyboy’s silent, he raises a brow. Says, “They’ll ask you soon enough, kid. Might as well get it over with.”

It’s December. Ponyboy watches the snow begin to fall outside the window. Three months ago Johnny died and Dally was murdered. Shot down by police.

If he’s being realistic, it was suicide.

“The State took me away from my brothers,” Ponyboy says, and then tries to sound hopeful when he adds, “I’m supposed to get to call them in two weeks. Darry promised he’d get me before then, though.”

That’d been the rules. No outside visitation or phone calls for a two week adjustment period. Ponyboy remembers Sodapop throwing the words “bullshit” and “family” at Mr. Harrison, but he’d hardly been paying attention. He was busy watching his family and wondering when he’d see them next.

“Rough two weeks for some,” Jim says, digs between his teeth with a fingernail.

Uncertainly, unknowing of his place, Ponyboy asks, “Was it for you?”

Jim shakes his head, eyeing him. It could turn into a scowl, but it doesn’t. “Nah, kid,” he says, leaving it at that. “I was glad.”

At dinner, Jim sits next to him. A younger boy, Jesse, a brown-haired kid with a smattering of freckles, joins them. Wide blue eyes watch as Ponyboy barely picks at his food.

“You’re new,” Jesse says, a lisp on his “R”s. “Aren’t you hungry? I sure am.”

Ponyboy gives the younger boy his dinner, hardly listens as Jesse tells him about scheduled feeding times, no snacking, or asking for treats. They don’t get anything but breakfast and dinner. 9 and 4.

Ponyboy’s stomach growls but he ignores it. Jesse’s handing him something, poking Ponyboy so softly in his side he hardly feels it. His carrots. Pony smiles at him thinly. The 12 year is scrawnier than he is, and he's heard a lot of comments thrown his way about his weight over the years.

“No,” Ponyboy says, gently pushing them back. Clasps his shaking hands together on his lap. Yearns for Sodapop’s crazy, wacky colored cooking. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

Jim eyes him, but says instead of anything else, quite lowly, “you smoke, kid?”

Ponyboy nods, then hesitates. Wonders if his nicotine withdrawal is that obvious. “They took my cigarettes, if you wanted to bum one off me.”

Jim shakes his head, actually chuckles. “Nah, kid,” he says. “I’ve got some. I was offerin’ you one for later.”

Ponyboy flushes. There are no adults in the room, except a single security guard at the door. The man named Mr. Mark, who had been quiet but not mean-spirited. Harbored the same lost look the boys here wear like clothes. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

Jim nods. “I’ll give it to you later,” he says, chewing on his toothpick. “We go to our room’s at 8 but the staff hit the hay at 10.”

Ponyboy’s starting to understand what he means. Remembers suddenly a staircase at the end of the second hall, leading somewhere above their rooms. “The attic?” He asks.

“Nah,” Jim says. “You’ll see.”

“Why can’t we smoke here?” Ponyboy inquires. He’s nervous somebody will hear but mostly anticipating a cigarette. He'd even been allowed to smoke in the hospital. During lunch back at school.

The older boy purses his lips. Sticks the toothpick out of the corner of his mouth and then says, quietly, maybe quiet enough Jesse won’t hear, “Kids lose hope here, Ponyboy. Sometimes they do really stupid things.”

Ponyboy pales. “Oh,” he swallows, getting it. “Like, on purpose?”

Jim nods. “More often than not. Windows bolted, no sharp objects. No cigarettes, no lighters. No more than one sheet per kid. Gotta be extra careful in this place.”

“Fires?”

“Sometimes,” Jim says. “Listen, don’t worry about all that. It’s been fine for a while. No one’s antsy but you and me, kid. Everyone else here right now would rather be here than anywhere else. No matter how much this place blows.”

Mr. Mark looks over at him for this comment. Instead of running over like Ponyboy fears he will, to scold or hurt, the security guard actually nods. Looks sad, or at the very least, unhappy. Turns towards other boys and back to his job so monotonously Pony winces.

“See?” Jim faces him again. “Everybody hates this place. But we’d rather be here than _there_. Savvy?”

“Yeah,” Ponyboy says.

There’s a ten minute warning overhead on some sort of speaker and he winces at the interference.

“They have a radio here?” He asks, suddenly.

“One in the rec room. Old but not bad. Still works.”

Ponyboy tries to grin. “They only play Elvis, right? Tell me they only play Elvis?”

“Shit,” Jim barks out a laugh. The first Ponyboy’s heard. “Kid, The Beatles are outlaws here. Don’t mess around with anyone but Elvis.”

Jesse’s even more quiet than Jim is, but he pokes Ponyboy in the ribs just before dinner ends. Gives Ponyboy a few of his carrots anyways. “For later,” he whispers, even though it’s against the rules.

Ponyboy thanks him, even though he’s not sure he wants to eat carrots handled for an hour or so in the warm air. Later, he eats them anyways. He does it for Soda, for Darry. Consumes the carrots because he'd promised he'd eat.

After they eat, Jim tells them it’s free reign in the rec room, which is less that and more of a lobby they’ve locked up. And there aren’t many games, mainly Jenga and cards. Checkers, a bent and folded up Chess board. Ponyboy watches one boy eat the queen. Same kid follows that piece with a rook.

"Should somebody say anything?" He asks. Jim shakes his head. "They'll get 'em back." 

Ponyboy stares at him, "That's not what I-"

"I know," Jim cuts him off. "Trust me. That's Teddy. He can eat anything. I once watched the kid choke down an entire pair of sunglasses. Just - _poof_ \- broke them apart and ate them. It was wild. He was fine." 

Pony'd laugh but it feels morbid to, so he says instead, "Uh? They know about that?" 

"Yeah," Jim says. "Everybody here knows everything." 

He and Jim sit in a corner, and Jesse, who seems slower than some of the other boys, lays his head on Ponyboy’s legs. He doesn’t make him move, wishing he was laying with Sodapop instead.

Jim’s got a book, but he’s not reading. Staring, flipping aimlessly.

Ponyboy touches the cover of a dictionary from 1949 and trails his fingers over the scribbles of boy’s from before. When he stumbles into some kid’s sketched pornography on a random page, he slams the book closed and blushes.

Jim laughs at him. “Kid, that’s all the action you’re gonna get here. Might as well enjoy it.”

He’s almost angry. Wants to be. But it sounds like something Two-Bit would say. Two-Bit who he misses deeply, the same Two-Bit who became his best buddy after Johnny.

“I’m 14,” he snaps, wishing he were older. Very briefly he panics about this being how he spends his next four years. Being teased about girls and waiting for his brothers.

Jim cocks his head at him. Leans back against the wall and crosses both legs at the ankle. Hands folded over his stomach. “Ah. Explains it.”

Ponyboy stares at him incredulously. “Explains what?”

“The innocence,” Jim says.

It’s 11:13 when Jim shakes him roughly on the shoulder. He mumbles something about following him, and with a busted up, flickering flashlight, leads him upstairs. Shows him what steps to avoid so they won’t creak and attract unwanted attention.

This floor is just an empty wing, with rooms that used to be lived in. Ponyboy follows Jim to the other end, chills down his spine even though he’s not cold.

“What is this?” He asks.

“Abandoned floor,” Jim says, chewing on a finger nail he bit off an hour ago.

“Where are the people?” Ponyboy asks. One of the doors looks partly open and he instinctively walks faster, spooked in the dark, nearly bumping into Jim. He's grateful Jim never shines the light on any of the doors.

Jim looks down at him from the corner of his eye. Says at last, “They moved out, kid. Gone. Not much else to do when you hit 18.”

Ponyboy says, “they don’t get more kids?”

“Not so much anymore,” the older boy replies, dark eyes even darker in the gloom. Ponyboy thinks they might be green like his. Maybe green eyes aren't so bad after all, not if Jim has them. “You’re the first one in a while. Since Jesse came about 3 years ago. Kid’s better off here anyways.”

“How old are you?” Ponyboy asks, softly. Sees the same odd item Jim was twirling around in his hands this morning snug in his back pocket. Wonders what it is.

“18 in two weeks,” Jim says, oddly quiet.

“Oh,” he says lamely.

Ponyboy thinks he’ll be here a lot longer, no matter what Darry says. And then he feels really bad because he knows his brother is trying. Knows Sodapop’s doing what he can too.

“I think they’re gonna draft me,” Jim says, eventually. "After this place."

They reach the end of the hall and Ponyboy’s still curious about where they’re going, but his stomach curdles. Sodapop’s 18 now, just turned. Ponyboy hopes to God his brother won’t go to Vietnam. Wonders if Darry can pull the “our parents are dead” card and the “my other kid brother’s in a boy’s home” special. Maybe they won’t take Sodapop because he’s all Darry has left.

“Do,” Ponyboy swallows, “do you want them to?”

“Shit, kid,” Jim says, forcing a grin. He reaches out towards the wall and very slowly Ponyboy recognizes old blinds. They slide upwards and then Jim’s pushing the window open, straining when it won’t budge. Eventually they get it open and he says, “I figure war suits me better anyhow.”

“How?” Ponyboy asks. Panics when he watches Jim slip one leg up on the window sill and over it. But when he forces himself to look past it there’s a flat parapet below. Just enough room to stand.

“Because I’m a fighter,” Jim says, leaning against the bricks. “It’s what I’m best at. Sometimes, even here. How do you think I got here, kid?”

Ponyboy doesn’t answer. A million things zip around in his head but he can’t assume. Jim smiles at him, genuine, like he’s pleased somebody didn’t.

“My dad’s a bastard,” he says, and Ponyboy sits half in and out of the window. Can’t bring himself to follow through. “I finally got tired of it, the same bruises, the same lies. He drank all the time, and one day when he came home he hit me with a bat to shake things up a little. Fractured my skull and broke my teeth. State apparently don’t appreciate when you beat your kids like that. He’s in jail and I’m here.”

He opens his mouth, pulls his cheek away from the right side.

Ponyboy counts the missing teeth and shudders. “Golly. That must have hurt real awful.”

“Can’t tell on the outside, huh?”

"No,” Pony says quickly. “I didn’t - I wouldn’t have noticed, if you didn’t tell me.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid.” Jim grins, the ice in his eyes thawing. “It’s easy to hide. I woke up in the hospital and they're tellin' me I'm goin' here, and I said, _really_? Glory! Can’t eat on that side though.”

Ponyboy shakes his head, closes his eyes. Things like that aren't supposed to happen. Lives aren't meant to be lived this way. Somehow he doesn’t think Jim would appreciate any pity so he doesn’t offer any. Jim hands him a weed as promised and lights it up for him. Ponyboy watches the sparse traffic below. Wonders if people can see two figures so high above, two orange lights gleaming, passing for monstrous eyes. He turns back to Jim.

“My parents are dead,” he blurts out all of the sudden. He doesn't know why but Jim told him everyone here has a story, so he figures he better follow his advice and spill it. “I live with my brothers, Darry and Sodapop. Three months ago I ran away from home because my buddy… My best buddy, Johnny, killed a kid tryin’ to drown me. He had to run away, and I went with him, stupidly, because Darry hit me. _Once_. And I panicked.”

“I think the State thinks he abuses me or somethin’,” he adds. “Darry got to keep custody of me and Sodapop but I still wound up here.”

He’s almost desperate for someone to understand. Jim watches him, and then after a long moment, says, “Ponyboy, you know you didn’t kill anyone, right? You didn’t have to go.”

“Yes,” he says. Whispers. “But Johnny did, so I went with him. Because I thought Darry didn’t love me anymore. I was so _stupid_. And then Johnny died because of the fire. Because of that, Dally died too.”

“Dally?” Jim says, ashing his cigarette beneath his boot.

“Dallas Winston,” Ponyboy says, not sure why he gives him his full name. Maybe because Dally’s dead and no one can hurt him now. Get tough and no one can touch you. “He got shot down by police. Couldn’t take it after Johnny died and robbed a convenience store.”

Maybe someone needs to ask him. And maybe Jim knows it, why he says, “Why?”

“Because,” Ponyboy says. “Dallas Winston only loved and lived for one person, and he was dead.”

In the morning, it’s Jesse who wakes him, something about breakfast. Ponyboy shivers under his single sheet and wonders where Jim is.

He must look confused, because Jesse says very solemnly, “He’s already down there. You’re late. We have to go.”

Ponyboy sits up. Tugs on each Chuck Taylor and rubs his eyes with his hands. Yearns for a smoke and remembers he can’t have any anymore. He's sweating buckets but Pony thinks he can spin it in his favor. Maybe sick kids get to call their families. “They mad?”

He's ashamed. What a horrible thing to think. He's _lucky_ he's not sick.

Jesse hesitates, but shakes his head. “They don’t get mad here.”

“They don’t?” Ponyboy says, maybe a little surprised. He lets the younger boy lead him downstairs even though he knows where the dining room is.

In the doorway Jesse shakes his head again, brown hair wild. “No,” he says, matter of factly. “That’s why I’m glad I’m here. Everyone is mad everywhere else.”

-

A day later Ponyboy has his first nightmare without his brothers. The same dream he can never remember but the one that leaves him screaming.

Someone yells at him to wake up and when he comes to it's somebody's hand striking his face. He flounders in the night, looks up to see somebody other than Jim or Jesse. Another older boy, hard eyed and aged beyond this place, no matter the year he was born.

“Can you shut the Hell up?” The kid shakes him by his t-shirt collar and Ponyboy pushes his hands off. Lays there panting for a moment, trying to gather his bearings. “Christ, it’s like Billy all over again.”

He can’t see him, but Jim says, snaps, “Andrew, get the Hell outta here. Billy couldn’t help it and neither can he.”

“Cap it, _Jimmy_ ,” the other boy snarls.

“Ah, fuck off,” Jim returns easily. To Ponyboy, “I told him not to hit you, kid. Sorry, Pony.”

There’s a light in the hallway now. A woman comes in and checks him all over, asks if he’s hurt. Ponyboy shakes his head numbly, wishing it had been Sodapop who’d woken him up instead, or Darry.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” She presses.

“No,” he mumbles, not really the right reply. Embarrassed, he adds, “I just get them sometimes. I'm sorry I woke everyone up. I didn't mean to.”

She tells him to follow, and when Ponyboy passes Jim’s bed his friend is staring at him, mouth quirked to the side. Blank faced, like he’s indifferent. Maybe Ponyboy’s already ruined everything between them.

He feels very, very alone all of the sudden.

At the door, Andrew spits at him, and Jim tells him to get out again.

The woman dragging Ponyboy along tells him to go, too. It’s not until Ponyboy’s at the end of the hallway and near the stairs that he turns and sees. Andrew’s getting the door slammed in his face, the sound echoing around in Pony’s head. And then the floor below swallows them up.

The woman must be the nurse. She sits him down on an examination table in her office and flicks on the blinding overhead light. When he can see again, she’s checking his blood pressure.

“Do you frequently have nightmares?” She asks. Pulls the cuff off his arm and throws it back in a basket. Removes the stethoscope from around her neck, but doesn’t use it.

“No,” he lies, not sure why. Some instinct tells him he should. “Just sometimes.”

“Do you wake up screaming every time?”

“No,” he repeats. A voice shrieks in his head, _yes, glory, yes_. But it doesn't matter if Pony dreams and tells. Ponyboy has two weeks before he can even see his brothers again. Can’t even call home until then. Not even after this whole showdown.

“I see,” she says, scribbling on a post it note. The pen is a god-awful pink. It burns his eyes and he looks away, out into the hallway past her. “I’m the nurse here, Ponyboy. My name’s Ms. Wiley. Something tells me you’re not telling the complete truth.”

His gaze settles on his lap. He mutters something about it being nice to meet her. Adults always think kid's are polite when they say it first. Ms. Wiley lifts his chin up and squints at him, inspecting, scrutinizing. Finally she smiles.

“Ponyboy,” she says, “You can always come here to talk to me. But for tonight I’ll let you go. Take this, okay?”

There’s a pill rattling around in a plastic cup. Another half-filled with water. He wonders where she got them from, but then he sees her close her desk drawer with her knee. She's a nurse so it makes sense why she'd have them, but he's only been here a few days. Shouldn't she know more about him before letting him guzzle down pills? 

“What is it?” He asks.

“A sleeping aid,” she says, “to help soothe your nerves.”

He’s had one cigarette in one day instead of an entire pack. He’ll take anything at this point, but then something tells him Darry would say no.

“My brother doesn’t like me taking pills,” Pony says, at last. “My doctor wanted me to, but Darry said no.”

“You’re in our care now,” she returns, her smile tightening. He definitely doesn’t like this woman either. Something about her, something off. Something _wrong_. “Take the pill, Ponyboy. Darrel isn’t here. You want to sleep, don’t you?”

He wants the sleep but not the pill. But she’s forcing it into his hand, offering to help him take it, which is definitely something he wants. Ponyboy closes his eyes and remembers Darry taking him to the doctor after Mom and Dad died. Nightmares solved by playing and running more, drawing and studying more. Solved by being so tired he can’t dream.

Ponyboy swallows the pill, and hopes Darry won’t hate him for it.

-

The pill worked like he thought it might. Like the doctor back home prescribed, the one Darry said no to. Ponyboy walks around the next day like a zombie, eating and drinking when the time comes, trying to concentrate. They make him lose track of time. 

It’s Monday. They’re supposed to have school, but when Ponyboy gets ready and grabs his backpack, the one Soda packed for him, Jim shakes his head. “Not here,” he says.

Won’t look at Ponyboy, but checks his watch. “You won’t need that here.”

Pony drops it. He used to enjoy school, even thought about his old one when Mr. Harrison told him he’d be leaving. Of all the things to panic about, Ponyboy wishes that it hadn’t been that. Time wasted then, and now. He could have spent those precious minutes plotting to escape this place.

Ponyboy sits in the same room for four hours. 4 o’clock is when dinner is supposed to start, but he can’t force himself to eat, even though his brothers asked him to eat well. He’s locked up in his head. When Pony nearly walks straight into another boy leaving the dining room, Jim’s tight grip on his bicep is the only thing that stops him from getting jumped.

“They dope you up?” Jim asks, looming in his face. "Is that why you've been stumblin' around all mornin'?" 

Ponyboy blinks back at him sluggishly. “To sleep,” he says, answering the first part.

Jim runs a hand down his face. Shakes his head, jogs his leg. “I can’t believe this,” he says, then a little louder. “After Billy, they said they’d back off. No more pills, they'd said." Under his breath, "Bunch of hopped up _bullshit_."

“What happened to Billy?” He asks. The spark of fear draws a touch of his concentration to the surface. Ponyboy stares at him. “What happened?”

Jim looks away, jaw tight. Through clenched teeth, “They doped him up, got him addicted to somethin’. Somethin’ mean. He turned 18 and they sent him on his way. No one’s heard from him for years. Hell, after how he left, he probably preferred it that way." Then, very bitterly, "Maybe a small part of me does too.”

Ponyboy shakes his head, wishing he misheard. He touches his chest, pats his hand against it a few times. The terror is buried 60 feet under but he still feels it. “How long?” He asks, then says, frustrated with himself, “how long does this take?”

“To wear off?” Jim says. Concentrates. “Uh, Billy burned it off in a day I _think_. But you’re a lot skinnier than he was. Just, don’t take anymore pills Wiley offers you, okay? Pretend to swallow ‘em. Throw ‘em up if you have to.”

“I can’t help dreamin’,” Ponyboy says. Jim steers him into the room and he wonders how they got upstairs.

He must say it aloud because the older boy looks at him warily, and goes, “Kid, seriously. _Don’t_ take the pills. Probably past date anyways.”

“I can’t help dreamin’,” he repeats, miserably this time. Puts his head in his hands, bends over at the middle on the edge of his mattress. “Darry doesn’t want me takin’ pills.”

Dryly, Jim says, “I can see why.”

When Ponyboy doesn’t move at all, he sighs and forces him to lie down. Looks at the closed door and tries to open a window in their room. Pony thinks he remembers hearing that they were all bolted shut, and then Jim wiggles a little harder and there’s a pinging noise as a nail falls off onto the sill outside. Window open, the air fresh and cold, Jim hands him another cigarette.

Must have kept it hidden in here after the other night, or maybe he’d always had one on him. Ponyboy lights it up and closes his eyes. Tries to focus on how good it's supposed to make him feel. It only makes him feel worse, like he's on the verge of something unsettling. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck lift. 

“Listen, kid,” Jim says, stiffly. “I’ll try and keep you from screamin’, but I can’t promise anything. I’m outta here soon.”

“I won’t keep you up too,” Pony says, and then, almost begging, “Jim, _please_... Don’t let me keep you up.”

The pills are making him fuzzy. He's trying to remember why he feels so disturbed. When Ponyboy finishes his cancer stick, Jim takes it from him before he burns his fingers and chucks it outside. Pony remembers the church, and sits up, blanching. Johnny had been careless before.

“We can’t smoke inside,” he tells Jim. Throws himself together like a puzzle pieces not quite right for each other. "Did it go out the window?" 

When Jim doesn't respond, just staring at him, mouth gaping, he presses. " _Did it go out the window_?" 

"Glory," Jim bites back. "'Course it did! I made sure." 

"Good," Pony says. Repeats, "We can't smoke inside." 

“Why? You didn’t have a problem last night, or just now.” Jim’s staring at him now. Away from the window and the traffic and the nearby rooftops. “Kid, you’re not makin’ much sense. You’re _really_ flyin’. Motherfuckers.”

“Johnny lit the fire,” Ponyboy says, shaking his head. He pushes past the vertigo and gets to his feet. Legs wobbling, he begins to pace. “His last cigarette ever burned him and the church down to the ground.”

Jim extinguishes his smoke. Clenches his eyes shut. “Okay, kid,” he says, like Ponyboy isn’t ruining everything. “Alright. No smoking in the room. Outside only.”

4 in the morning, Jim’s hand is clamped over his mouth. Panting through his fingers, Ponyboy’s eyes fly open and lock onto the older boy’s face. He jerks upright, and when Jim asks if he’s alright, Ponyboy nauseous, only gives him a thumbs up. Asks for the trash can and dry heaves, but nothing comes up. 

Unknowing of just how badly his words sting, Jim mutters, “ _Christ_ , how do they do it?”

Ponyboy doesn’t fall back asleep. Can’t. Won’t do that to Jim. Not like he did Sodapop, and to Darry.

He keeps vigil and in the morning when Jim wakes up he finds Ponyboy in the rotten wooden chair, in the midst of withdrawals. He leans against the wall next to him and twirls the same silver object in his hand. Offers Ponyboy another smoke that he hides for later.

Doesn’t use his words, but apologizes all the same.

-

The days pass in similar fashion.

A week later Ms. Wiley sees him in the mess hall and pulls him out of his book.

He’s mostly alone because while he doesn’t have visitation, other people due every Monday and Friday. Both Jesse and Jim have gone to check but later tell him no one showed. And he doesn't know anyone else, aside of Andrew. Looking at the guy still embarrasses him, not matter how rude he may be. 

Shiny heels in his line of sight first, and then when he looks up she’s smiling. Offering him a chance to talk. Maybe even offer him advice while she's at it, if he'll take the bait. He's no minnow. 

“Have you had anymore nightmares?” She asks, sits at one of the tables near him. Turns the chair around and crosses her legs prim and proper, just to focus on him. “You can tell me, you know. I’d love to help if I can.”

“No,” Pony says, tightly. He sticks his nose back into a beat up copy of _Catch-22_ despite having read it before. “No dreams.”

“Any nightmares?”

“No,” he grits out. Lies between lies.

She nods, steeps her fingers on her knee. He tries to get her to leave her by pointedly ignoring her, reading whatever lines he can focus on. But she’s still studying like she's got a final, green eyes sharp and unblinking. Watches him turn pages.

“Lying’s very bad, you know,” Ms. Wiley chides him at last. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ve got more of those sleeping aids. You can take one every night, if you’d like.”

“No,” he says. Never again. “I’m good. I don’t want any - I don’t _need_ any.”

“Alright,” she says, slowly standing up. The stupid pink pen she used before to write on her notepad is back, flashy in her pocket, tucked against her white blouse. Ms. Wiley looks at her watch and pats him on the arm. “If you’re sure. If not, my office is always right down the hall.”

When she’s gone, Ponyboy finds he can breathe easier.

-

It’s the final day of his two week exile. Ponyboy’s finally allowed to see his brothers. He nearly takes out Jim when he throws himself out of bed, flinging open the door. He’s got the jitters and he also kinda has to pee.

“Woah!” Jim says, standing aside as Ponyboy races past him. “Slow down, kid!”

He throws an apology over his shoulder, and when he returns to their room Jim’s getting dressed. Scarred back turned to Ponyboy, he says, “Your brothers?”

Ponyboy nods, then realizing he can’t see it, says, “Yes! They’ll finally be here.”

And then he remembers his friend's leaving, just when Jim opens his mouth to remind him. “I’m glad, kid. I’ll say ‘hi’ before I get out of here, alright?”

Something inside of him deflates. He knew it would happen, that Jim would be going, would be forced to, but it still stings. When Jim turns around he’s smiling, no matter how empty it feels. 

“Um, do you have any plans?” Ponyboy asks him. He sits on the window sill and stares at the older boy. Jim’s packing his bags literally and metaphorically, the same silver rod in his back pocket like always.

“I dunno,” Jim says, thinking. After a while his eyes light up. “Might head to California. Got a buddy there that might let me crash with him.”

Ponyboy thinks about the ocean, the vastness of it and how infinite the sky seems there. He remembers hearing once in a documentary that the world drops off. Curls over the distant horizon. He always wanted to go there, and he thinks maybe when he gets out he'll convince all of them to go, Steve and Two-Bit included. The five of them in a foreign world.

“That sounds real tough,” Ponyboy tells him. Smiles for real now. Doesn’t want to assume, so he says, “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

Jim looks closely at him, and he wonders if he said the wrong thing. But then Jim’s grinning ear to ear at him, finally looking happy. Ready to get out of here, his eyes glowing. Ponyboy envies him and doesn’t all at the same time.

“Sure, kid,” Jim says easily. “I’ll write down his number. When you get sprung outta here, just call and ask for me.”

He does so on an old sketch of some kid long past they find in a drawer, and Ponyboy slips the piece of paper into his back pocket. Then thinking about it, relocates it to his suitcase, not wanting to lose it.

“Thanks,” Ponyboy says. “For making things easier here for me.”

“Shit,” Jim says. “I didn’t do nothin’.”

“Everything,” Ponyboy corrects him, grinning right back.

He and Jim go down to breakfast, pushing and shoving and nudging each other on the staircase. It’s probably dangerous and not a good idea, one Darry would scold him for, but they’re both on fire. Exhilaration fills Ponyboy’s belly.

Jesse’s down there, pale, but he smiles when Jim sits next to him. Throws his arms around his waist. Jim pets his hair, brushes the beautiful brown waves out of his eyes.

“Be good while I’m gone,” Jim says, like he’ll come back. Ponyboy hopes he will, but maybe not to this place. Maybe anywhere but here. “Listen to Pony. He’s smart.”

Jesse nods, shares that tiny smile he does for Jim only. His baby blues focus on Ponyboy and he gives him a little wave.

“While he’s here, he’ll help you out, I promise.”

Ponyboy only partially minds being volunteered. He thinks about what Jesse will do without Jim and him, what he’ll be like. Darry and Soda’ll be here today. He’s going to go home. But he nods, says, “Sure I will, Jesse.”

The kid, who’s not really that much younger than him in age and body but is in spirit, puts one of his hands on Ponyboy’s. Jesse eats and doesn’t say much.

When the three of them are finished, they go to what the workers call school, and play finger football with a folded up coloring worksheet. Pony doesn’t learn anything here because no one cares, so he doesn’t feel bad. A tiny part of him wonders what Darry would say. After dinner, Friday's visitation time begins. 

Jim follows him in, not that he’s got anyone to see, but because he promised before he’d be here.

When he sees them, Ponyboy runs to them. They look like themselves. Darry with his hands folded on top of the table, Sodapop fidgeting, rubbing the back of his neck and checking his watch every five seconds. 

Darry in that old man jacket, the beige one with the black inside and the cuffed, stringed wrists, and Sodapop with his DX shirt beneath the blue-black coat Dad got him one year. When they hear footsteps approaching, it’s Soda who realizes it’s him. He twists around and throws himself at him. Pony's older brother nearly topples himself and the chair.

Before Ponyboy knows it Soda’s scooping him up in his arms, his feet off the ground, and laughing wildly. Kissing his forehead, brushing his hair from his eyes. Darry hugs him so hard next he’s out of breath, but relieved. Happy.

“You’re lookin’ a little thin,” he says, frowning. “Are you okay here? No trouble?”

Ponyboy doesn’t tell him about the pill Ms. Wiley gave him, about how fuzzy it made him. When he opens his mouth to answer, he hears Sodapop’s sharp, but interested, “Who’s this?”

Ponyboy turns to look at Jim, and introduces him. “He’s my roommate,” he says, a rueful smiling stretching across his face, “or well, until today.”

Jim grins, reaches a hand out to shake Darry and Soda’s. “Jim Edwards,” he says. “Or James. But between us I’m changin’ my name to Tyler.”

“What happens today?” Darry asks, concerned. Pony looks at him and wants to say, _you're taking me home._ But doesn’t. Something in their faces stops him. Instead, he waits for Jim to explain. 

“My time here is up,” Jim says, tapping on his watch. “They kick me out today. At last the moment's come.”

When they sit back down, the four of them, it’s Soda who speaks first. Sodapop’s chocolate eyes are dark, but happily he regards Pony with the same love he always has. His handsome face is still the same, still so good and young looking. 

“Are you okay here?” He repeats, asking Darry’s question. Ponyboy listens to him speak because he's forgotten how soft-spoken Sodapop is, how sweet. “You look thin. Kinda pale. They feed you alright?” Pony nods.

“I eat fine,” he says, and Jim coughs. Glaring at him, he adds, “Jim’s just worried because I won’t have a roommate anymore. One that's a _terrible_ _influence_.”

They both laugh, even if Darry and Soda don't find it as humorous. 

“Kid eats like a mouse,” Jim says, answering his brothers' question, rolling his eyes. "Nibbles here and there. Grazes, if he's really part horse. Mainly storing for winter, I suppose." 

Maybe Ponyboy really likes him because he's funny without trying to be, like Two-Bit. Always adding his two cents, now that they're close. Pony bites his thumb thinking about Jim leaving. 

Darry frowns again, brows drawn tight. There are new wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. “Ponyboy?” He says, looking to him.

“I eat,” he clarifies. “Maybe not as much as I did at home, but it’s just different here. Not as good, I guess.”

Both of his brothers look concerned, and then Soda says, grinning, “No worries. I’ll fatten you up again.”

It’s Darry’s turn to snort. “Soda, please don’t feed him anything new. He needs to get used to eatin’ your food again.”

Sodapop tries to persuade them both. “I bet you miss my cookin’. When we take you home I’m addin’ gummy bears to the mash potatoes.”

Darry and he groan at the same time. Jim raises an eyebrow. “Gummy bears?” He asks.

“Soda’s cookin’ is wacky,” Pony grins. “He always dyes the food different colors. It's unnatural.”

Soda pretends to be hurt. “I’ll have you know this kid eats _all_ my cookin’.”

Darry puts his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with what sounds like a laugh. It’s the first time Ponyboy’s seen him feel humor in a long while. It’s feels like a gift.

It's better than the tight lipped, white mouthed smile he's been wearing, whatever he's feeling.

“Soda,” Darry says, clearly reminiscing. “Pepsi-Cola, Pony’s lucky to have _survived_ that gummy bear lasagna fiasco.”

Jim’s face twists, maybe in disgust or intrigue, but he smiles, puts his hands in his pockets. He leans back in his seat and tips it off the ground. The only thing that keeps him from wiping out is one foot hooked around the table leg.

“Well, kid,” he says, abruptly. The watch on his wrist makes Ponyboy’s heart beat faster. He always knew it was borrowed time, the whole two weeks, today especially, but it still catches him off guard. “I gotta scoot. Gotta go find me a car. Ain’t gonna get to California by foot.”

Ponyboy’s expression crumbles a little. Sodapop must notice because he slings an arm around his shoulders. Even Darry looks a little taken aback. Mainly because they've been out of the loop on his life. _Not purposefully_ , he tells himself. They don't Jim at all, except that Pony likes him and now he's up and leaving. 

“Okay,” Pony says, standing up. Looks back at his brothers, and then throws his arms around Jim’s torso. The older boy stiffens at first, surprised, and then he’s hugging Ponyboy back just as hard.

“Don’t forget to call,” Jim says, then, “you still have that number?”

Ponyboy nods, then hesitates. Pats his back pockets just to be sure it's still in his suitcase. A little lower he asks, “Jim, what’s that thing you always carry around? If you don't mind me askin'?”

Jim’s face doesn’t fall. In fact, he looks sort of proud.

“It’s a pin,” he says. “Used to keep my dad’s leg together when I broke it. They removed it and I _may_ have taken it. Stole it, maybe. Probably stole it. Yeah, most definitely.”

Ponyboy laughs, much to his brothers' confusion. Definitely morbid, but it's Jim's victory. “They let you keep it?”

He’s not sure if he means this place or the doctors who removed it.

Jim leans in, mocks hiding their conversation behind his hand. Smirks. “You can hide lots of stuff in lots of places, kid.”

Ponyboy shoves him backwards with a loud, laughing the whole way, “Gross!”

Sobering a little, Jim pulls it out of his pocket, flashes it briefly, and hugs him one last time. He smells like their room but also like the outside. Like he's just so much closer to freedom his body knows it. “Seriously, kid. Don’t forget to call. If I get drafted I’ll write you wherever we both end up.”

He doesn’t say it, but he hopes Jim doesn’t go to war. He’s fought hard enough.

“Stay safe,” Pony tells him instead, watches the older boy salute him.

“Try to stay alive,” Jim returns, tipping an imaginary hat. Says goodbye to both of Ponyboy’s brothers. Polite when he turns away. Ten seconds later and Jim’s gone, bag tossed up over one shoulder, the same metal pin in his back pocket. Somehow, knowing what it is makes Jim closer and further away all at the same time. 

Ponyboy stares in the doorway where he was, and when he collapses back in his seat he can’t help but feel bummed. Looks at his hands because he can't believe he's gone, just like that. 

“What was that about?” Darry asks him, gently. He and Soda share a look, one that makes his stomach curdle.

“He’s a good guy,” Pony says, simply. “And my buddy.”

“You got others, right?” Sodapop asks, worrying his lip. Ponyboy knows he's not asking him to forget Jim. So they don’t worry any more than they already are, Ponyboy nods, says, “Jesse. Younger than me.”

“What’s he like?” Darry asks, clearly interested. But Pony shakes his head, chews on his thumb nail. Enough of here.

“Tell me about home,” he says instead, desperately. Leans forward in his seat so he's even closer to them both. "Anything. Just talk about out there." 

Something flashes across Sodapop’s face, like he wants to dig around more, but he starts talking anyways. Tells Ponyboy he got a raise, that Steve's fixing to marry Evie. He doesn't look any worse for wear talking about it, even though Pony knows they both flash to Sandy. Sandy who never deserved Sodapop. 

“Two-Bit got a job,” Darry says, slowly, finishing their news.

“Really?” Ponyboy asks. He’s shocked, maybe in a state of disbelief. Because while he’s stuck in here, doors locked, no access to the world outside, his family is moving on. Maybe it's selfish to think or wish they wouldn't. Finally, he says, “I didn’t think he would get one right now.”

Sodapop’s fingertips brush back his hair, far from his eyes. Maybe to see if Ponyboy’s okay, if he’s upset. He does his best to smile and Soda reciprocates. It's good Two-Bit's able to get a job and what seems like keep it down. Pony's happy for him, he really is. 

“Yeah, somethin’ about bein’ lonely without you at home,” Soda’s hugging him again, probably for the same reason he’s claiming Two-Bit got a job. His tongue suddenly feels too thick in his mouth for words.

Swallowing, Pony asks, “Are you guys okay? They don’t charge you for this, right? This place?”

Darry’s smile is strained again. “No, Lil Colt,” he says. “They don’t charge us a cent.”

“Oh,” he says, relieved. “I guess I thought they might.”

Soda slugs him on the arm. “Quit worryin’ so much. We got this, honey.”

There’s a five minute warning overhead. The same speakers that always dictate where Ponyboy’s going. He looks at the table and his hands shake under the it. He wonders if Jim left him any cigarettes in the upstairs wing or in their room.

“Are you okay, Pone?” Darry asks, leaning his head down to follow Ponyboy’s glazed stare. “You sleep okay?”

He bites his lip. Stiffens, straightens his posture. “Just fine,” he says, voice cracking down the middle. Clears his throat. “I promise, Dar. It just ain’t home.”

“Any nightmares?” Soda’s big chocolate eyes are watery. His beautiful calloused hands find Ponyboy’s under the table, and he jerks as they tremble. Brings Pony’s hands topside and holds them, studying them like it’s the world’s greatest mystery. “Pone?” He asks, and then licking his lips, “What’s wrong, baby?”

“I just want to come home,” he says, and damn him if his eyes water. Tears well up, hot and cloudy, but he blinks them away. Looking at them both, he hears the one minute warning and gets unwillingly to his feet like a puppet on strings.

“I promise we’re workin’ on it,” Darry says, almost pleadingly. “We’re talkin’ to a lawyer and everything.”

Ponyboy hugs them both one more time. He’s all torn up inside but he gets it, he does. But a big part of him is still crushingly disappointed. A week, they'd said. “I understand,” Pony says, for them. “I think they’ll keep me here until then. Until to you can get me back.”

As an afterthought, he adds, shuffling his feet, “Some of the boys who come here, Dar?”

His brothers share a glance again. There are a million answers that can follow this. Knowing them they assume the worst has happened, or might yet. “Yeah?” Darry prompts.

“They would rather be here,” Ponyboy mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s why Jim was here. His dad… and Jesse is… I don’t know about Jesse’s family but no one visits him.”

Darry holds him, and Ponyboy pushes his face into his chest. Inhales deeply when his cologne washes over him. Sodapop smells like cars, new and unfinished projects, and when the voice overhead tells him he has to go Pony turns half-away with his head down.

“Please come get me soon,” he begs. “I miss you guys so much.”

“I promise,” Darry says, like the breath’s been knocked out of him. Soda looks equally as pained. His fingers linger on Pony’s cheek and when the security guard calls for him again he has to go. Goes slowly, just to hold onto them. 

Ponyboy looks over his shoulder one last time at them, and then Mr. Mark shuts the doors behind him and locks them. Through the window, he sees them both, neither of them blinking, stiller than a Polaroid.

He goes to his room thinking about his brothers standing there in the visitation room, Darry’s lost look, Sodapop’s open mouth, his quivering lower lip. It haunts him. Rots in him like that damned chair in the corner. The same one he bets hundreds of boys have sat in before and cried similarly. 

At 10, Ponyboy goes against himself and finds Ms. Wiley. He asks for one of those pills. Obviously upset, she gives him two, and he takes them both in their little cup as a doggy bag of sorts and goes back to his room.

He doesn’t even care in the moment. Doesn't even ask himself what Darry would think, watching him down the sleepers dry without a second thought. Just takes them both.

The next morning, he finds out he missed breakfast. School, too, if it can be called such. Pony’s withdrawing and every part of his body aches. He wants a smoke and another pill. Jesse comes by his room around 4, trembling like he usually is. Both of them lonely without Jim. 

"I don't have anyone else," Jesse tells him. "Most of the time I like it that way." 

"The other times?" Ponyboy asks, grimacing at his hoarse voice. Clears his throat, watches the other boy curl up on the matted rug and try to comb the threads, coax them into order. He's cold sweating but he doesn't think Jesse notices, which relieves him more than he'd like.

"I want a family," Jesse says. "My family."

When Ponyboy doesn't know how to answer, he says, very quietly, so soft that Pony's not sure he's even heard him right, "not the first one. The next one. The right one." 

"You'll get it," Ponyboy promises him. If any kid can get out of here, it's sweet, quiet Jesse. No matter how slow anyone might think he is, there's more to him. Feeling bold he sits on the rug beside him. It's tedious but it's what Jesse wants, so he sits their and helps him brush out that damn rug with his bare fingers. 

Mr. Harrison is downstairs when they call Ponyboy down for dinner. Smiling, he’s busy talking to Ms. Wiley and some of the other workers. Maybe their boss.

When he sees Pony, he beckons him over, and Ponyboy goes to him like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“I have wonderful news!” Mr. Harrison says, and Pony doubts it. And then he says the words, the ones that crash land in his heart. The ones that make the room spin. “I’ve found you a foster family!”


	2. dawn goes down to day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a bad one. a bad part of the story exists here. the first home. the first house he lives in that's not his own. 
> 
> rape/non-con warning. please be safe. triggers ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously just please be careful. minors, please leave if you've read this far. it turns here.

Ponyboy panics. “No,” he says, shaking his head, backing away. He trips over his own feet and nearly lands on his ass. “No. This was supposed to be temporary. I’m supposed to be goin’ home.” 

“Things change,” Mr. Harrison says, asking the workers for privacy. Pony almost gets on his hands and knees and begs them to stay. He has never thrown himself at another man's feet, but he'd do it to go home. “Sometimes, in ways we never imagined. But I promise this is what’s best for you.” 

Ponyboy shakes his head again. Shivers. “You’re wrong,” he says, voice raising. He doesn’t care who looks at him. He needs a witness. Somebody needs to know he went kicking and screaming against his will. “I belong at home, with my brothers. I want to see them. I wanna go home.” 

“And you’ll be going to a nice one,” Mr. Harrison responds, less cheerfully this time. “Mr. and Mrs. Marshall are just dying to meet you.” 

“I want to go _home_ ,” Pony repeats, hoarsely. “It isn’t supposed to be this way. Darry promised. I thought this was temporary.” 

“Everything _is_ temporary,” Harrison returns, pulling a line from some cheesy 'Moving On' booklet Ponyboy doesn't know the name of. “Darrel is no longer your guardian. Please, go eat your dinner and then head to bed early. We leave early in the morning.” 

Ponyboy stares at him incredulously. Despite himself, there are tears burning in his eyes and when he blinks they pool beneath his lashes. 

“Go on,” Mr. Harrison persists, when he hesitates. “Ponyboy, I promise this is going to be a whole new world for you. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall are very wealthy and can provide you with all that you need.” 

“I don’t want money!” He shouts. Pony knows he sounds like a petulant child. He watches Mr. Mark from the corner of his eye, hands on his belt, moseying over. “I don’t want to go there! My home is with my brothers! They provide what I need!” 

“Darrel is severely lacking in finances,” Harrison says. Then calmly, he raises his hands and gestures his frustration. “If you don’t want to go to the Marshalls I can find another boy here. One more willing.” 

Ponyboy spits. “I want to go home,” he says. "Pick anyone else."

A hand at his shoulder blades. Pony jumps a foot in the air and whirls to face Mr. Mark. 

Dull eyed, he says, “Ponyboy, it’s time for dinner. If you won’t eat then you need to go to your room. Wash up and pack up. Mr. Harrison has found you a home and you’ll be going when he says.” 

Pony snaps at him too. “They tell you to say that?” He bites. “Is that a part of your job? Convincing me to give up on my brothers and just quit fighting?” 

Mr. Mark’s grip is very tight on his bicep. When Ponyboy winces he loosens up a bit, but he knows he’ll bruise.

"I thought you were different," Pony adds, weakly. 

“My job is to take care of kids like you,” Mr. Mark says. Growls. “No dinner tonight, Ponyboy. Go up to your room. I’ll be there in five to make sure you’re there.” 

Mr. Harrison listens when Mark apologizes to him. Takes the apology, brushes the dust off of it, and returns it pleasantly. Climbing the stairs Pony hears him say, “Oh, boys these days are so troubled. That one especially.” 

He slams his door. Inside, Jesse’s in Jim’s bed, where their friend used to sleep. Ponyboy startles at the sight of him and flops down angrily on his own bed. Rips off both sneakers and throws them at the wall. Sneakers Darry bought him before the last school year.

Jesse flinches, which makes him feel like a really great person. 

“I’m sorry,” Ponyboy says, digging his fingers into his burning eyes. “I’m not mad at you.” 

“Mad?” Jesse asks, slipping off the edge of the mattress. He sits back on that damned rug and tries grooming it again. It’s pointless, a total and absolute waste of time, but Pony doesn’t say that. 

“Yes,” he says, losing steam. He lowers his hands to the bed and doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m very mad.” 

“Oh,” Jesse says. “They don’t get mad here.” 

“I know,” Pony says, quietly. “I’m not supposed to be here.” 

“Oh,” the kid repeats. After awhile, he says, “Ponyboy, do you think I’m stupid?”

“Huh?” 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” 

Ponyboy blinks, sitting up. He sits cross legged, staring at Jesse on the floor. “No, of course not. Who told you that?” 

"Some of the other boys," Jesse says. "I just wanted to know if it was true." 

"Absolutely not," Pony says, shaking his head. He tries his best to smile. "I promise, Jesse. I think you're really smart." 

"Oh. Thank you," Jesse's blue eyes are bright. There's quiet, and then Jesse actually smiles at him. 

Is this what Sodapop feels like soothing him after a nightmare? Or Darry, when he chases away Ponyboy’s troubles with his muscles? 

Whatever the feeling is, it distracts him. He savors it until Mr. Mark arrives at his door and knocks. Finding Jesse sitting on the floor he narrows his gaze. 

“Kid, I don’t know what got into you,” the guy says to Ponyboy, stepping into the room, closing the door behind him. His hands are still on his belt and Pony’s blood runs cold. “But we don’t act like that here. You’ll tell Mr. Harrison you’re sorry tomorrow and we’ll see if he’s nice enough to forgive you.” 

Ponyboy says nothing for a very long time, then. “If you’re goin’ to hit me, just get it over with.” 

“Hit you?” Mr. Mark actually looks affronted. “Ponyboy, I’m not going to hit you. Has someone hit you before?” 

“No!” He says, irritated all over again. “You just keep puttin’ your hands on your belt and it’s makin’ me nervous.” 

The guy drops his hands suddenly. Limp at his sides, Ponyboy thinks he’s even more anxious. They’re no longer preoccupied. 

“I am very sorry you thought I’d hit you, Ponyboy,” Mark says. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t face your punishment. Jesse, will you please go back down to dinner?” 

“Okay,” Jesse says. Then looking to Pony he adds, “You promise you won’t hit him?” 

“Swear it,” Mr. Mark grins, something in his eyes. 

When Jesse’s gone, it doesn’t matter that Ponyboy’s leaving tomorrow. He realizes that no matter where he goes he’ll never get to go home. Numb, the feeling spreads through his veins. 

“Ponyboy, I want you to kneel,” Mr. Mark says. Then hand at his belt, Pony pales. He’s heard enough bull sessions between Steve and Two-Bit to be frightened. Isn’t this only for girls? Or is this going to be something else, something much worse? 

“Mister,” Pony says, swallowing down his fear. “I promise I learned my lesson.” 

He leans down into Ponyboy’s face anyways. “Kneel and turn around.” 

Knowing it’s wrong, hating every second of it, Ponyboy does as he’s asked. Having his back turned to Mr. Mark is worse than anything he’s faced here, and he spent two days of his two weeks here doped up on past date sleepers. 

The belt clinks. Leather slaps on leather. Mr. Mark locks the door, and he makes Ponyboy take off his shirt. No matter what he promised Jesse, he lies. Above all else, he’s a liar. 

"I thought you weren't gonna hit me," Pony says lamely, no fruit for his labor. "You promised Jesse. Swore on it." 

"This isn't hitting." Mr. Mark's dead eyes light up. Ponyboy is a fool to have trusted him. "This is beltin'." 

When the first lash rains down, Ponyboy is too shocked to make any noise. And when the second burns across his skin he’s in too much pain too. The brass buckle slings him across one thin shoulder blade and he cries out, hunching over himself. He cries for Darry, for Soda, until his words become unintelligible.

Now Pony gets why Johnny was so afraid, why he’d panicked and killed Bob. Why Dally was locked away at 8. Why Steve’s always staying at their house when he gets kicked out. 

When he gets home, if he makes it there, Ponyboy promises to be nicer to Sodapop’s best friend. 

  


He’s shivering the next morning. So tender he hardly moves. The welts feel bad, but look even worse in the mirror. And because Mr. Mark walks around, pretending to be the same aloof, unhappy guy as before, Ponyboy can’t tell anyone. 

No one would believe him anyways. Mr. Harrison checks what he’s packed and at the door Pony asks for his switchblade. It’s one Two-Bit swiped for him a year back, or maybe it’s one of Sodapop’s old ones. It doesn’t matter who gave it to him, but it’s his. If he's going somewhere worse than this place, he might need it.

“Oh, you can’t bring that,” Harrison says, almost in horror. “No, that simply won’t do. Ponyboy, you must never carry one of those again? You want a good home, right?” 

“My home,” he corrects, very quietly. “I want to go home to Darry and Soda.” 

“That’s not going to happen right now,” Mr. Harrison tells him. When he drives Ponyboy away from the boy’s home, away from Jesse who he never got to say goodbye to, away from his switchblade, he’s explaining everything. 

He tells him about Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, the very nice, rich couple who seem to be having trouble bearing children of their own. How they’re getting older and want a son. Why they chose him, of all boys. Handsome, they'd called him. Smart. 

Their neighborhood is nice. Too nice. Definitely the nicest looking place Ponyboy has ever been inside. But it isn’t home. And the couple is nice, like Harrison said. Everything’s just… nice, and nothing more. 

“Oh, do come in,” Mrs. Marshall tells him, when Mr. Harrison rings their doorbell. “Please, please, come in.” 

Mr. Marshall takes Ponyboy’s bag in one hand and leads him down a hallway. He’s on the first floor, closer to their bedroom. He has no idea what lurks upstairs. 

“This is your room,” he tells Ponyboy. He’s smiling so hard and trying to please him so Pony reciprocates. His back is in agony so he doesn’t bend over to set his bag down once it’s handed to him. Instead, he sets it on the bed. 

“I’ll show you where everything is,” Mr. Marshall says, beckoning him. He shows Ponyboy his own bathroom, which he’s responsible for keeping clean like his room. The kitchen where he’ll have some standard chores. The dining room where they eat every meal together. They don’t go upstairs. At the last door in the hall, the older man turns to him and says, “This is our room. Knock first if you need us. But it shouldn’t be an issue. Most of the time we’re in the living room together.” 

Ponyboy nods awkwardly. He will be living with strangers. This is nowhere near anything like staying with Two-Bit. There, his sister Karen tried to chase him down and kiss him, and Two-Bit’s mother had just been kind, warm like his own. These people have never met him before. And they're supposed to provide for him. Take care of him.

They don't know anything about him. Just what his file says. Earlier, Mr. Harrison had added something down in his list of behaviors. Pony wishes he could burn the whole manila folder but he figures he’d probably get beat again. 

Ponyboy tells himself to have hope, like his brother's asked him to. He tries believing it was a one time deal. Somehow, a very rational part of him says it won't be. He feels very far from them right now.

He’s quiet when Mr. Marshall leads him back into their kitchen. Mr. Harrison’s sipping coffee from a mug that will never belong to him. Between his fingers Ponyboy glimpses “#1”. 

Mr. Harrison finishes his cup, and after saying goodbye, he’s almost out the door when Ponyboy catches up to him.

“My brothers don’t know I’m here,” he tells Harrison quietly. There’s a very specific pain in his chest now. “When can I see them?” 

“Oh, that depends all on the Marshalls,” he tells Pony. “They’re quite pleasant, aren’t they? Good folk.” 

“Will you… can I at least call them?”

“Again, you’ll have to discuss that with Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. I really do have to go now, Ponyboy. Please, take care.” 

The door shuts almost noiselessly. When he leaves, he takes away every aspect of the outside world. Ponyboy hasn’t had fresh air in three weeks, the only time being the car ride here. And he leaves without throwing Pony a bone, not even a scrap. 

And Ponyboy heads back towards the kitchen. Hollow eyed, he watches this family lean against each other happily. As happy as he is back home. There is something electric in the air. Broken as he is, he ignores it. 

“May I be excused?” Ponyboy asks. 

“Have some dinner first,” Mr. Marshall says. “Maryanne just roasted us a chicken.” 

“Please,” he says, then adds, “my brothers don’t know where I am. Mr. Harrison said I had to ask you before I do anything. May I call them?” 

“After dinner,” Mr. Marshall says, more sternly this time. Stern and his expression changing. “Come, help us set the table.” 

There are only three of them. Ponyboy’s not sure how he can help anymore than setting out dishes and silverware, but the Marshalls even eat off place mats. Have a tablecloth and everything. They drink red wine and Ponyboy wishes Two-Bit were here with a beer. A joke. Anything. 

“Michael,” Mrs. Marshall says, and it takes him awhile to realize she’s talking to him. “Could you help me carry the food?”

“My name’s Ponyboy,” he says, softly. 

“Oh, what a silly little name!” She says, putting a hand over her mouth. Tinkly voice, brown curls framing her heart shaped face, she adds, “No, I’m sorry, but we’ll be calling you Michael here. It’s a more sophisticated name.” 

“I like my name,” Pony tells her, knowing it’s pointless. He can't really believe she's just called him unsophisticated. Ponyboy knows he comes from a small, run down neighborhood, but he'd always thought his parents were good, intelligent, proper people. “My dad was original like that.” 

“And your father is gone now, yes?” 

Ponyboy jumps at the callousness. “Er, yes,” he says. “He died about a year ago, with my Mom. In a car accident.” 

“How terrible,” Mr. Marshall says, sneaking up on him. “But I’m afraid she’s right, Michael. It really is what we must call you.” 

He’s starting to truly understand why Johnny just went where everyone else did. Why he said what people expected, rarely straying outside the lines. When everyone makes the decisions for you what else can you do but agree? 

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Marshall says, handing him a dish. It’s some sort of mash potatoes that should smell good and doesn’t. It’s not dyed, either, he thinks hollowly, knowing Sodapop’s the only one he knows who does that. “It’s over now. And in our house you’ll go by Michael. Alright?” 

“Okay,” Ponyboy echoes. 

“You’ll speak when spoken to,” Mr. Marshall reminds him, carrying something else as he follows Pony through the kitchen to the dining room. He sets down something equally boring looking. Bland. 

“Yes, sir,” Pony says. 

They eat in silence, mainly. The Marshalls talk but so far they’ve been ignoring him, letting him push his food around his plate. Ponyboy's just fine with that; let them ignore him. He'll find his way out of here somehow.

When he asks to be excused once more Mr. Marshall’s fist comes down on the table and startles him. 

“What is it with you? Can’t you see how hard Maryanne’s been working?” He’s glaring, and Pony thinks if he had a knife he’d be royally screwed right now. 

Mrs. Marshall touches her husband’s forearm, her other hand curled around the base of a wine glass. There’s red on her lips that’s not just her lipstick. “George, it’s alright,” she soothes. “You know where he came from.” 

“I came from home,” Ponyboy says, gritting his teeth. It didn’t end well the last time he grew angry but right now the belt is very far from his mind. “My Mom and Dad raised me, and then my brothers Darry and Sodapop.” 

“Very original,” Mrs. Marshall says, smiling thinly. “Yes, we’ve heard of Darrel. Is that why you’re so angry, Michael? Because your brother is abusive towards you?” 

Ponyboy’s shaken. Of all the questions he expected... “What?” He croaks. “Darry don’t hit me.” 

“Darrel doesn’t hit you,” Mr. Marshall corrects. “Ponyboy, you’ll need to learn your manners, and you won’t learn them well if you don’t stop lying.” 

“Darry doesn’t hit me!” He shouts, half out of his chair. It's his turn to slam his hands down on the table top, uncaring if his water spills over the edge of the glass. Nobody listens. “Darry would never hurt me! You’re wrong if you-” 

There’s a slap, then a stinging, prickling sensation across his face. Mr. Marshall’s red hand morphing into Darry’s, ready to strike again. Pony closes his eyes, adjusts to the feeling of another mark. His back kills him. His face burns, from embarrassment, from shame and anger. But nothing hurts quite like his chest. 

“You will never raise your voice in this house again,” Mr. Marshall says, no room for questions. “You will never speak against me or Maryanne. And you will always refer to me as ‘sir’. Now eat - the - damn - _meal_.”

Mrs. Marshall gasps, “Language! George, you know you’re not supposed to...” 

Ponyboy nods minutely. Learns somehow to tune their talking out while he can. He picks up his fork, and eats his dinner. 

-  


Ponyboy turns 15 here not long after coming. The Marshalls pretend they don't know it's his birthday, and Pony's miserable about it but content with it. He doesn't need them, and he doesn't want to be here. If they'd just let him go home... He doesn't want anything from them. 

-

Life with them is a struggle. A very difficult path, even before it all goes to shit. Ponyboy does his chores and never asks for anything, not even to call or see his brothers. If they know where he is, they have not come to see him.

He thinks he might be farther away now, much farther than Tulsa. Maybe too far for them to reach him. Irrationally he wonders if he's no longer in Oklahoma, that Mr. Harrison lied about the drive. 

Weeks in, Mrs. Marshall tells him it’s Christmas. 

“We had no time to buy you your gifts,” she says, sniffing. “Although I am not sure you’ve earned them after your outburst.” 

_You can't keep me here forever_ , Pony thinks. 

Ponyboy says nothing. He nods his head because that’s the response she’s looking for. Around her, the “ma’am”’s are far and few between. He doesn't want to spend Christmas with her, or her husband, anyways. Even if it means not celebrating one. Without his family, it doesn't matter. Nothing does. 

“We cannot spare the time to drive you to your brothers,” she says. “If you want to see them for Christmas, they must come here to pick you up.” 

And then, vilely, she adds, “But they don’t know where you are, do you?” 

Heartsick, Ponyboy finishes his chores. There’s a mandatory hour of watching television that he never pays attention to. Why these people want to spend time with him when he's clearly such a problem, Pony will never know.

He's bored, but saying it won't go over well. Sometimes he sits in the chair by the window and just stares outside. Ponyboy watches people come and go and wishes somebody would take him with them. Sometimes, the mail-man sees Pony watching and he'll wave. He wonders if anyone knows Pony's here aside of him. 

The Marshalls own no books, at least, none that he’s found. He doesn't think he'd be allowed to touch them anyways. And since he doesn't have his copy of _Gone With the Wind_ , Ponyboy can't turn to it when he's upset. He can't read Johnny's letter. 

Ponyboy wonders what’s upstairs. Chides himself for it every time. He’s in enough trouble. When the hour is up for watching TV, each night Ponyboy lays down in his bed. He tries and fails not to think about home.

-

They send him to some fancy school half an hour away. 

Mrs. Marshall cuts his hair for it after calling it ridiculous. Pony watches the last few inches of platinum blonde free fall to the floor. A greaser may not have much, but he has his hair. Now, he doesn’t even have this. 

His hair’s dark, darker than he’s used to. Wavy now that it’s so short. Curling vaguely like Darry’s hair does. The Marshalls tell him grease is disgusting and don’t buy him any. They don't buy him anything. He wouldn't take it anyways.

Mrs. Marshall and Mr. Marshall cannot take him to school, and because he cannot walk the distance to and from in time, Ponyboy must ride the out of district bus. 

He wishes he could. Sometimes when he waits for the bus, he dreams about running down the road and over the hill. The wind catches in his hair and his always closes his eyes. Ponyboy waits for people who aren't coming. Sometimes the mail man sees him shivering in the cold, waiting for his bus driver. When he passes his kind eyes stare in Pony's soul. 

It comes early, earlier than Ponyboy is used to. And there, he actually uses his brain. It’s stimulating and part of him begins to enjoy it. But then he feels like a traitor. Enjoying any aspect of this life seems like betraying his old one. So Ponyboy does his schoolwork and then takes the bus back to the Marshall’s house. 

Sits alone. He doesn’t make any friends because he doesn’t want to. It’s an all boy school again, and no one tries to talk to him after the first week of silence. 

He’s relieved. No one to get close to. 

At night, he dreams of his brothers. 

And then he has his first nightmare since the boy’s home.

-

He wakes up screaming like usual. Someone is shaking him hard, too hard, and for a second he thinks it’s Darry who’s always too rough without meaning to be.

Seeing it’s a fuming Mr. Marshall does nothing to ease the pain or dry his tears. 

“Is this some sort of joke?” He asks, gritting his teeth. “You think it’s funny to wake us up? I am a very hardworking man, and I have taken you into my home. And this is the thanks I get? A prank?”

“It’s not a joke,” Ponyboy says, wiping furiously at his eyes. “You can ask Mr. Harrison, honest, sir. I have nightmares.” 

There’s a long moment of silence. Then: “I don’t believe you.”

Something hollow inside of his chest, a horrible emptiness spreading. Fear turns his stomach worse than it already has. 

“I promise, sir,” Pony swears. “You can ask my brothers, too.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Mr. Marshall snaps. “First you wake me up and now you’re telling me what to do? I really ought to beat you.” 

And then a smile across his face. How his eyes go dark. 

Mr. Marshall stands up, and tells Pony to sit still on the edge of the bed. This is beginning to feel familiar. Is he going to get beat every time he has a nightmare or raises his voice? 

Desperately Ponyboy wishes for Soda. Wants Darry. He knows they could save him. They’d protect him. So where are they? Trying, Darry’d said vaguely. A lawyer to be bought off with money they don’t have. 

Mr. Marshall returns with a belt. And when he tears Ponyboy’s shirt off over his head he stares admiring the view. He can’t help but feel violated, like this is some sort of twisted freak show with him as the main attraction. 

Mr. Marshall, husky when he says, “Michael, bend over the bed.” 

“Is this why you wanted a son?” Ponyboy asks him, voice wavering. He won’t do it. He won’t bend over the bed. Last time he knelt and he’s tired of being a whipping post. “To beat him?” 

Mr. Marshall’s face is half shadowed in the gloom. Ponyboy can hear a clock ticking somewhere. His heartbeat matches it, wild in his chest. At the pulse point in his neck. 

“I won’t say it again,” Mr. Marshall says. “Bend over the bed. Now.”

Ponyboy stays standing, locked in a defensive pose. “I won’t,” he says, resisting when Mr. Marshall’s dark eyes stare him down. There’s sweat on the back of his neck. 

And then the belt hits him across the face. A buckle across his mouth. It clacks against his teeth and chips one of his molars. Blood staining his lips red, trickling down his chin. When he tries to look up, Mr. Marshall hits him again, on his raised forearms. 

“Bend over the damn bed,” he says lowly. “Or I’ll tell Mr. Harrison you tried to attack me. That you hurt Maryanne. You’ll never go home. You’ll never see your brothers again.” 

And it should make Ponyboy rally and just fight harder. But then he sees Darry’s twisted up face, Soda’s shocked, horrified expression. Knows how cold they’ll be when they hear he’s an attempted murderer. He'd nearly lost before, the first time he'd been falsely accused of murdering someone. 

So he bends. To Mr. Marshall’s will and over the bed. The older man spreads his legs, and when Ponyboy’s hiding half his face in the sheets, his hands curled near his head, Mr. Marshall slides his pants down. 

And then his underwear. Despite himself, Ponyboy cries out in fear. Anticipation is a terrible thing. Mr. Marshall laughs. 

“Mr. Harrison thought I was a good man,” he says, like it’s funny. “But I am most certainly not.” 

The belt hits his lower spine first. Jerking, Ponyboy bucks and wishes he hadn’t. Mr. Marshall’s left hand settles him, pressing him down with all his larger weight into the mattress. There are tears in his eyes, rolling down the side of his face. When he gets belted again the bed sheets are wet with salt water, smeared tears. 

He touches Ponyboy’s ass with the belt, and then with his fingers, stroking the tips across the raised welts forming. He's terrified, and he understands that's the point of this. By taking away his ability to fight, he can be molded into whoever Mr. Marshall wants. 

White hot, this burns and hurts ten-fold. Pony loses his breath, sickness splashing into his mouth. 

Mom and Dad never beat him with a belt. Maybe spanked him. Darry’s never done either of those things. Pony supposes, trying to think of something funny in the midst of this pain and great amount of fear, that it’d be too awkward to spank your brother. 

But there’s nothing humorous about this. There are several more strikes. One the second to last, there’s warmth on the back of his thigh. It rivulets down his leg, onto the waistband of his sweatpants. Turns his white briefs auburn when the blood will dry. 

Mr. Marshall is panting above him. “You even think about pulling this stunt again, I’ll beat you into next week. You hear me? No more funny business. You just go to school and make us look good. Behave.” 

Ponyboy can’t breathe with his one hand pressed so hard into his back, so when the older man decides to release him the first thing he does it lay there, breathless. Very slowly, unsure, he pulls his underwear back up. Then his pants. 

Mr. Marshall leaves the belt hooked up on the back of the door. A warning. 

  


-

Ponyboy has another nightmare three days later, and this time he shrieks so loud Mr. Marshall actually shuts him up. Knocks him out until the next morning. His eyes swell shut and the most he can do is tidy up his room. 

Mrs. Marshall tells him he was warned and leaves him to rot. 

He misses a week of school.

-

Outside, the mail man with kind eyes sees Ponyboy's mottled face in the window. Past the glare and curtains, Pony stares right back at him. 

-

He’s making dinner because Mrs. Marshall told him too. Even though he hadn't hesitated, Mr. Marshall had flashed the belt he was wearing. One side of his face is yellow and green, contrasting with ghostly paleness of his skin. 

They don’t let him use the phone. If Darry and Sodapop know where he is, they don’t call. They don’t come running. And Ponyboy can’t help but hate them a little for it.

-

When someone knocks on the door a week and a half later, Ponyboy’s uncertain. He’s not the one who’s supposed to get the door. He ponders going to get Mr. Marshall but he’s upstairs. Off limits. 

Mrs. Marshall’s bedroom door is shut. He knocks once, twice, rasping his knuckles across the dark wood. He hears her get up and then she is very moodily standing in front of him, eyeing his disheveled appearance. 

“Someone is at the door,” he says, softly. “I figured you’d want to know.” 

Already the mask is slipping into place. Ponyboy closes his eyes and goes back to sweeping the kitchen floor. Whoever it is, they aren’t here for him. No one ever comes for him. 

Mrs. Marshall answers the door in the same false, cheery voice. He can’t hear what she’s saying and he tells himself he doesn’t need to. There’s a spark of hope somewhere inside of him, buried deep, and by the time she speaks again the door is shutting and she’s finding him.

A car peels out of the driveway.

“Are you working?” She asks, frowning, inspecting Pony’s work. He nods at her minutely, quietly telling her he’s done the dishes like she asked, the laundry, cleaned his room and the living room, and is now sweeping the floor. 

She doesn’t even seem grateful. Not that he expects it. Maybe he doesn't deserve any gratitude. She says, “Good, Michael. Good. Don’t forget to dust. The dining room is filthy.” 

Ponyboy just agrees to do it. He does it all. It distracts him from the pain in his heart. Sometimes the physical pain is so overwhelming he cries in his bed late at night. 

He remembers Mr. Marshall’s fingers across his skin. The goose flesh that followed. But he won’t tell anyone. Can’t, because it means putting all of Darry and Sodapop’s hard work at risk. If they’re still fighting for him, he can’t halt their progress. 

Ponyboy grabs a dust mop and sets to work. 

-

Two days later someone knocks again. More urgently. There’s a pause, and then the knocking gets angrier. Sounds like someone else. This time Mr. Marshall’s already in the living room, reading the paper. 

And he doesn’t need Ponyboy to tell him someone’s knocking. He throws the newspaper down and Pony scurries out of his way into the hallway where his room is. Goes to the bathroom and washes his face with cold water. 

When he goes back into the living room Mr. Marshall’s closing the door very forcefully. Someone's boot sticks in and then a hand. “He really isn’t up to seeing guests right now. He’s unwell. The doctor says it might be contagious.” 

There’s an outraged reply. A familiar voice that Ponyboy chooses not to place. As if to prove a point, Mr. Marshall gestures for him to cough.

It’s not all fake out, he supposes. He thinks he used to have asthma, and he’s been knee deep cleaning wherever the Marshalls want him to. For however long they keep him. If Mr. Marshall wants him to cough, at least it's something he can do right. 

Pony misses Darry, especially when the door closes. 

-

The face reflecting back at him is not his own. Cheeks and eye sockets hollow, this boy looks incredibly frail. Half-starved. Pony raises a hand to the mirror and the boy does back. 

-

"Have you been upstairs?" Mrs. Marshall opens his door without knowing. Ponyboy's curled up in his bed, trying to make sense of Geometry. Darry used to check his math, go over it with him. It's like a foreign language to him. 

"No," he says, frowning. Then, even though it's her husband's rule, "I'm not supposed to."

"Oh," she says. Hardens. "Right. You aren't. Good, Michael." 

He doesn't have the energy to answer cryptic questions. There might answers but he doesn't have them. Clueless, Ponyboy turns back to his homework. 

\- 

The night, Mr. Marshall locks the door behind him when he comes in. Ponyboy’s done nothing wrong, or so he thinks, but then the older man is at the end of his bed and staring at him. Watching him. 

Pony starts. “Sir?” He asks. "I did like you asked earlier. I was sick." 

"Have you used the phone?" 

"No, sir," he says, truthfully. "I don't even know where one is." 

"People came looking for you," Mr. Marshall says. "A police officer, and a man."

"I didn't call anyone, sir," Ponyboy insists, wondering who they were. Maybe Jim's come back to town, tracked him down to say hello for old time's sake. 

He's unnerved. Mr. Marshall doesn't blink. Then: “Michael,” he says, very strangely. “I want you to take off your clothes.” 

“What?” Pony stutters. He feels like the breath’s been knocked out of him, like no more oxygen subsists in this room. There's a bomb with a lit fuse. "Why?"

“You hear me,” the older man says. Then as if to prove he really means it, Mr. Marshall moves closer. “Or I’ll rip off your clothes for you.”

Ponyboy does as he asks, thankful he’s half sitting up. Removing his underwear under the sheets is easier. He’s not nude in front of this frightening man. He’s not being hit yet, either. If Mr. Marshall simply wants to see him panic and take off his shirt, then Pony can live with that. 

It’s silent. Then: “Michael, come here. Sit on the edge of the bed.” 

He most certainly does not want to. He’d rather be knocked out again, chip another tooth. Have the belt a hundred times over. If he ever gets to go home, Pony isn't sure how he'll explain the scar across his lip. 

“N-No,” he says, shaking his head. “Please, sir." 

Mr. Marshall shakes his head. Looks pleased at his growing submissiveness. When he takes a step closer he finds Ponyboy’s ankle under the sheets and pulls him to the edge like he’d asked. Throws the sheets off like he's done this before. Pony sincerely hopes he is this man's first and only foster child. 

Naked and shivering in his eyes, Pony clasps his hands over his privates. The only person who’s ever really seen him naked is Soda. Maybe Darry when he was in the hospital. 

“Move your hands, Michael,” Mr. Marshall says, oddly. Cocking his head, he leans forward, pushes his nose into Pony’s hair. “You smell very sweet... Like a good boy. Mr. Harrison called you troubled, but good.” 

Ponyboy flinches away from him. He thinks about what Darry and Soda would do. Darry who can fight. Soda who chooses to because he can. He doesn’t take his eyes away from this man’s face. Looking away means accepting this fate, and he's not bowing yet. 

Mr. Marshall pulls his hands down and away for him. Pushes Ponyboy onto his back so he’s lying flat. Ponyboy bites his lip and knows what will happen. When he raises his head he's slugged twice. The blows leave him so dizzy his vision swirls. Is this what Darry promised all those months ago? Being put in a boy's home so fast it'd make his head spin? 

It happens very quickly. He is lying there one moment, and then not two heartbeats pass before the older man is forcing his way inside of him. Ponyboy tries to push him away, off. Anywhere. He even kicks at him, lands a blow on Mr. Marshall’s knee that nearly takes him out.

His breath smells like that rotten wooden chair in the boy’s home. Ponyboy twists out of his grip, but he always finds him. Plants one of his big hands on the center of Pony’s chest and winds him. Breathless, he cannot scream. 

Mr. Marshall begins to move. Horrible, disjointed movement that rocks Ponyboy’s body back and forth on the mattress. Up and down the bed. He tangles his fists in the sheets and when Mr. Marshall sees him reach out to right hook him, he uses both hands to trap Pony’s against the sheets. 

“You want to be good, don’t you?” Mr. Marshall pants. “That’s how you get to go home, right?” 

By being a good boy. Ponyboy’s heart shatters. If Darry or Soda could see him now they’d be so ashamed. Disgusted. Ponyboy decides then he’s dirty. Especially when Mr. Marshall’s teeth find his neck. His teeth and then his fingers. Clamping down on his airway, Pony almost hopes he kills him. 

He thrusts into Ponyboy even further, even harder. Everything’s so tight he feels parts of him he didn’t know existed tearing to shreds. There is blood between his legs and on Mr. Marshall’s length. On the white sheets. 

When he finishes, Pony think it’s over. He lays limp, breathless from Mr. Marshall’s grip on him. He chokes, gasping. He is all knowing. Omniscient. Darry and Soda will never love him after this. What's the point in coming home if he'll be sent away? 

Somewhere in his head Harrison's words float about. How the Marshalls had been dying to meet him. Pony wonders if he really will die here from this.

Mr. Marshall collapses onto him, lays on him and squashes him into the bed. Thin and ever thinning Ponyboy cannot breathe below him. When Mr. Marshall’s cock slides free it releases a flood below. 

He tries to cry out, but he voice gives out. Misuse, and Mr. Marshall’s strangling grip have prevented him from using his last defense. There are no walls now. No fortresses. Darry's muscles aren't here to hide behind. Sodapop's golden love is very far away, if he'll ever get to feel it again. Pony tells himself he hasn't earned it. Something he heard Mr. Marshall say to his wife once, knowing Ponyboy had been listening. 

Ponyboy cries, and for the first time it is not for home. It’s for mercy.


	3. an agent crests the shadows of a nearby alleyway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more bad. yeah bad is not over anytime soon. i have not slept. this has been going on all night. i am tired and not. have more bad, but be safe.
> 
> this chapter is all scattered and stuff because i'm writing it as ponyboy experiences time in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> people are out of character. drugs used in this chapter. warnings do apply. pony's off, steve's a little off, and everyone's just kinda freaking out. it's what you do when something like this happens. 
> 
> my dad worked for dcs and cps. the villages twice. behavioral health too. i've learned a lot, plus i have a lot of mental illnesses myself. some of this stems from my past, present, and future.

  
  
Ponyboy floats for a very long time after that night. Without purpose, he wanders. He’s conscious and limping around for a time, before he progresses to walking. 

That is the extent of his progression. Pony is a vegetable, living in a vacuum like Darry never wanted. But Ponyboy decides that if Mr. Marshall really is going to end up killing him, be it on purpose or accident, does it really matter anymore what Darry wanted? 

-

He’s not shown up once. Time passes by and Ponyboy flunks his classes. His finals are in the toilet. Mr. Marshall beats him again, somewhere no one will find the marks. The next time he shows up in Pony’s room at night he knows what to expect. When he goes to school he works even harder. Someone sometime tells him he used to be a straight 'A' student. They ask what happen and Ponyboy does not know. 

He’s not so sore this time. Ponyboy tells himself that of all the good things to find in this situation, this might be the only one. 

-

People knock again. Always coming and going. More urgent, sometimes. Ponyboy always gets one of the Marshalls and they’ve groomed him for what they want. He’s a fond little pet of theirs. A toy. 

Now that he listens, he's good. Good like he always wanted to be. 

-

There’s no fight in him. If Ponyboy knew living here would be so bad, he would have cherished the boy’s home. Nowadays, Ponyboy dreams about that place more than any other. Not of home. It doesn't feel like his anymore. He's been exiled. Persecuted. 

-

Sometimes Mrs. Marshall puts something in what he's drinking. At first he thought it was something normal. Innocently, in the beginning, he'd decided it'd been something only rich people could afford. He was a fool. Still is. 

Ponyboy knows better now. 

-

The pills change him. They make him sleepy, more cooperative. She always gets him to talk during those times. About anything. Everything. 

Sometimes she asks about Sodapop. And he tells her how golden and perfect he is. “I’ve never loved anyone like I loved Soda,” he says. The drinks make him slur. Ponyboy’s 16th birthday comes and goes and he doesn’t even know it. 

Other times it’s about Darry. “No one’s ever fought for me like Darry has.”

Most of the time, it’s about himself. He doesn’t know if he believes in anything he spews anymore but the drinks calm him, soothe his mind. He feels numb all the time anyways, now, but these quiet his thoughts. Mrs. Marshall asks him about his life a lot. What it's worth to him. Silly little things, she says, like if existence is meaningless or monstrous. 

Pony remembers not liking either option. 

Mrs. Marshall puts these thoughts in head, ones that make a lot of sense. He thinks he’s always thought in the way she suggests, but that she’s strong enough to bring it into the light. Stronger than he ever was. The pills just make it easier to believe. 

-

A tiny flame flickers in him. Leads him out of the dark. Somebody keeps blowing it out like it's a birthday cake candle. Ponyboy relights it and tries again. 

-

A very deeply buried part of him, a part he kills off a little more every time he's forced to drink one of her drinks or takes one of her pills, knows it’s all very wrong. But Mr. Marshall threatened to ruin everything. If Pony has to sleep with him to save his brothers, well, he didn’t really get to choose in the first place anyways. 

He chooses to believe it’s for them. That Mr. Marshall won’t cooperate if he doesn’t do what he wants. But then Pony remembers that he’s a puppet on very twisted strings. A Pinocchio who can, in fact, lie, and is good at it. 

With these secrets to keep, Ponyboy has perfected the art of lying. 

-

One night Ponyboy cuts his hand open washing the dishes. The Marshalls decide he doesn't need to go to a hospital for stitches, so Pony does what he can. 

Neither one of them knows how to stitch. And they don't have any thread, he doesn't think. They probably wouldn't give it to him anyways. He almost asks, but he won't add to his debts. Under the sink, in a dusty cabinet Pony doesn't open unless he needs to clean his bathroom, he finds a carton of floss. Old, fraying floss. Darry taught him how to stitch. Sodapop and the gang, too. Without medicine, this will be one of the worst pains he's felt here.

As it turns out, floss is a terrible substitute for stitches.

-

Sometimes, Mrs. Marshall offers him others things. She gives him sleeping pills, in case he wants them. He thinks of Ms. Wiley and hides them in his room. Of Darry who never wanted him on pills in the first place. In one of his fleeting moments of clarity, he tells himself that maybe one day he will poison the Marshalls right back.

It's a vile thought. Ponyboy thinks he's had enough of evil.

But he still considers it.

-

Sometimes it becomes unbelievably transparent to him that they only thing stopping him from walking out on this family is that it'd make things harder for his brothers. By revealing what's happened to him, he'll be bringing home shame in a doggy bag for his family.

Besides, he doesn't know how long it's been. He knows it's summer now. He didn't go on the last day of school. Mr. Marshall had forbade it, damn near breaking Pony's wrist when he appeared even slightly weary. He hadn't thought anything, said anything, but he always seems to know regardless. 

One day, when Mrs. Marshall is in her room, and Mr. Marshall is upstairs, Pony sits on the floor in front of it. Like an idiot, he waits. Slums it on the carpet like a dog awaiting its master. Staring at it, Ponyboy knows the door's locked but all doors can be opened.

No one comes to the door, and he doesn't open it.

-

Pulling out the floss is worse than stitching it in the first place. The wound is terribly ugly, a jagged line of white raised across his palm. Mrs. Marshall catches him mourning over it and hits him upside the head. She says, "Get back to work! Michael, I honestly have no idea what's been going on with you lately!" 

_My name is Ponyboy_ , he thinks. He finishes the laundry under her watchful eye, and when he's finished she calls him Michael again.

He's beginning to feel like his name's a bad word. 

-

He’s not allowed to use the phone, still. Even if something is to happen to Mr. or Mrs. Marshall, he’s not allowed to use the phone. Ponyboy doesn't remember asking to, but they would know. The Marshalls know everything. But still, late at night, Pony thinks he might want to call someone and always forgets who. 

-

Somehow, they still find him. In this dream Ponyboy's brothers actually find him. They're here and he wants to be held and hold them right back, but something in him goes staticky, like when the television goes out. A warning in the back of his mind.

Their apologies taste like baloney in his mouth, no matter how he tries to believe in them. 

He's waited forever for them, and they're standing in front of him with open arms. One step forward and he could fall crashing into them. Soda's golden and on top and so handsome, so perfect. And Darry's so strong, his eyes blue but not icy, smiling and heroic. But somehow it's not them. 

Ponyboy dreams they find him and that he turns his back on them anyways. 

-

There's something wrong with Mrs. Marshall. He knows that. But he can't stop her.

He takes the pills for Soda, for Darry. Takes the pills for them so they can be free of him. He's most definitely a burden. If his life ends, the State pay Ponyboy's family. A small sum for his foster family, but most of it will go to his brothers. 

It's a small price to pay for their happiness. Mrs. Marshall wants his secrets but takes his sanity, too. 

-

He hides the pills she gives him under his mattress. The one he more often than not is sharing with a sickeningly terrifying man. Pony knows if he says something that people will talk. He doesn't want to be in the newspaper again. In conscious bits of existing he thinks a great deal about his life and what its worth to him. Mainly, what it's worth to others. 

-

They’ll taunt Sodapop at work, maybe cost him or Darry their jobs. A queer kid brother in this town, in this lifetime? Hell, no. It’s shameful in this era and Ponyboy feels like the people want him to: ashamed. It doesn't matter that he doesn't want to have sex with Mr. Marshall. It still happened. And it still ruined everything.

But then again if they aren’t coming, if they’re truly gone like the Marshalls say they are, then what does it matter? There is no hope, really, if they've thrown in the towel. No point is wasting energy on anticipating pointless events that will never happen. On wanting people who will never rescue him.

No one knows but him and the Marshalls what goes on. Not his teachers, not his social worker, not the State. Ponyboy even thinks about the mail man knowing, wondering if he's changed his route. Maybe not even Mrs. Marshall, who thinks - or chooses to believe - her husband has come into his room to belt him. Mainly, he touches Pony, his hands huge and calloused and wrong. Sometimes Ponyboy fights back and he pays for it.

Mr. Marshall has sex with Ponyboy six times in total. Before the seventh, there’s a knock on the front door. 

-

A very long time ago a man told him he’d been born in July. Someone else tells him he doesn't have a birthday.

Ponyboy tries to remember today's date. For some reason he doesn’t think today is sometime in July, but he can’t be sure. He stares at the bed sheets Mr. Marshall keeps changing. Time is disjointed and he hates it. It's disconcerting. Waking up here and there, in varying degrees of consciousness, in different states of mental and physical undress. 

There’s something going on. Haywire. The urge to punch something, break something, is overwhelming. But these things are all wrong - he's not supposed to do, or even think, about any of them. But Ponyboy wants to. He thinks about smashing the mirror and when he doesn't he always comes back to haunt it. 

-

Ponyboy gets dressed. Tugs on his old purple sweatshirt and some of Soda's old shorts. Cleans up. Splashes his face with cold water. Outside, there are people talking. Four men. Pony doesn’t know who to expect. Then there’s a fifth voice. Demanding. A voice that he hears only in his dreams. 

Mr. Harrison.

“I really must insist you let me in,” he says. “I have a warrant. I _will_ be speaking with Ponyboy today, regardless of your wishes.” 

“He’s unwell,” Mr. Marshall returns stubbornly. “I’ve told you this before. Not in any sort of state to see people, let alone those who abandoned him.”

He has been sick, Pony agrees. But it hasn't been his choice, not completely. He thinks that's a version of the truth, at the very least. 

“If he's so very ill, then he needs to be treated by a physician. He's been in your care for a year now, and has not been seen since - outside of his education - he was placed in your care. He’s missed too many days of school,” Harrison says. “I have reason to believe you're keeping him here. You’ll be letting me in or I’ll call the police. As I said before, I have a warrant. Please, _move aside_.”

Someone over his shoulder yells to be let in, or they’ll break the door down. Heavy boots on the porch. Boots he remembers, or should.

"I'll fuckin' tear it down with my bare hands!" Somebody else yowls. "Open up, fucker!"

Ponyboy hides in the hallway and barely peaks an eye around the corner. The carpet is soft beneath his feet. Distantly, listening to these people argue, he thinks about Jesse. Ponyboy hopes someone kind has him. Someone good. Someone with a lot of hair or a shit ton of carpet for him to play with. 

Mr. Marshall says something else. There’s an object behind his back in his left hand, angled towards the floor. Something Ponyboy doesn’t want to think about but recognizes immediately. 

It’s a pistol. One like Dally used to have, the one he was holding when he'd robbed the convenience store. Is that what Mrs. Marshall asked him about the other night? There’s a very fuzzy, hazy memory of Dallas’ death. Suicide by cop. He cannot remember what Mr. Marshall does for a living. 

Ponyboy goes against every beating. Goes against every word spewed at him. In one ear and out the other. He takes another step and forward and nearly collapses. The memory of that September night returns to him. It had been about Dallas Winston exploding apart underneath the streetlamps. How he'd rolled down the hill and laid at Pony's feet, his last words his name and not Johnny's. 

Freezing, he remembers that Mr. Marshall is a cop. Chief of Police. If they're still in Tulsa, this man very well could be one of Dally's murderers. Is this why Ponyboy's been trapped here alone? So he can be murdered too?

He can’t do this. He's not strong enough. And he definitely cannot beat the class division that's been drawn, a line in the sand that waves cannot erase. For many heartbeats, he's consumed by the urge to run.

Pony almost leaves and goes back to his room. Gives up on whatever this new charade is. Whoever these people are, they're angry and he's had enough of anger. 

Almost.

The gun reflects the sun and the light reaches him, crawls up over his toes. Ponyboy steps into the jerking refraction, mesmerized. He wishes it were warm. And chasing that thought, he turns around. 

-

He’s been so cold for so long. Mrs. Marshall told him many times that it’s okay to let go. To take those pills.

Sometimes he thinks about the bottle under his mattress and sets out all the capsules to count them. When he's done, he either takes one or puts them away.

He's not sure which moments are clearer - the ones were he's on sleepers or withdrawing from them. And it terrifies him, the thought of losing his mind and everything he is. There are good things locked in a chest, thrown to the bottom of the ocean, but he knows how to hold his breath.

In his worst moments, Ponyboy clings to that hope. 

-

Someone’s loud. Louder than Mr. Marshall. The door’s being shoved open, Mr. Marshall nearly landing on his ass. The person who crosses the threshold into the living room first isn’t who Ponyboy remembers. He never thought he would see this person again.

No, this man wears Darry’s scuffed up work boots. His jacket, cinched at each cuff, too old for him. The one from the boy's home. Has Darry’s same hair and stance and handsome face. But it can’t be Darry. Darry has not once in his life looked so terrified, or angry. This stranger looks around and wears the face of a man who he's told abandoned him a long time ago.

Ponyboy nearly drops. His legs give, but he pushes his knees together to stay standing. One hand on the couch, he wavers. He knows he's skeletal but Mrs. Marshall calls him pretty when she sees his bones. Mr. Mashall calls him _good_. 

This man isn’t Darry. When he looks at him, finally sees Pony quivering there, it can’t be Darry. Darry doesn't feel so openly like this man does.

But then his voice is husky and his eyes are wet and his mouth drops open. Wiping his hands on his pants like Ponyboy's oldest brother when he's nervous. Everything about him screams _Darry Darry Darry Darry_. A small part of Pony recognizes the truth and it flits in and out like a mirage. 

If he believes in this, what will it cost?

This man runs toward him. Large, lengthy strides Pony used to be able to match step for step. Ponyboy flinches, taking a stumbling step backwards. There’s more men, men he _thinks_ he recognizes but can’t be sure, shoving their way into the house too.

He wants another pill from Mrs. Marshall. A drink, perhaps. Something to take the edge of hysteria off. 

“Pone?” The first man says breathlessly, stopping where Ponyboy’s indicated he should. He looks like Darry and sounds like him, but Ponyboy knows Darry’s gone. 

The Marshalls always say that. They repeat it when punishing him, or when he's set to work. When he misses dinner, silly him for being late to every meal, they throw the words at him like a right hook.

But they haven't been wrong so far, have they? Darry and Sodapop never came. These people wearing their skin are here to lure him away from the truth, to haunt and taunt him. They are very good at deceiving, Pony will give them that. 

“Ponyboy?” Not-Darry repeats, hesitantly. "Little Colt?"

Uncertain, Ponyboy staggers backwards once more. Bumps into the ottoman and almost goes tumbling. When the stranger reaches for him, the hand in front of him hesitates. Pony knows that nickname but he can't remember the last time someone called him it. Here, his first name is wrong, _unsophisticated_ , and he figures any sort of name anything like it is too. 

There’s someone else now, joining Darry. Someone who looks like Sodapop. An impostor, though, his mind supplies. Not matter how much he wants to believe otherwise, Soda’s gone too. It's a trick. A very elaborate one, but a trick nonetheless. 

They left and he's here. Hell, _he_ left and he's here. 

“Honey?” The man wearing Sodapop’s handsome face says. He looks so very relieved to see him. Scared and sorrowful looking, too. "Pone, look at me, sweetheart."

“Kid?” Someone echoes. “What’d they do to you?” 

A guy who looks like Steve saying, “Oh, shit. Fuckin’ Hell, kid.” Pointing at Mr. Marshall he adds, "you sick son of a bitch! You get off on starving kids?" 

Something in Pony clicks. Steve, the real version of him, wherever he is, knows these feelings well. Although he'd deny it, he probably knows this fear like an old friend that occasionally pops in and out of his life. Right now, it's Ponyboy's comfort object. 

He can see a little clearer now. Moving unsteadily, limbs willowy and brittle, Pony goes the long way around the couch to Mr. Marshall. He can’t stand with those people, even though they look like his family. He never takes his eyes off them.

Ponyboy’s trusted before, and they sent him here. Mr. Marshall told him he’d done all these bad things to him to set him free, to make him good. And Ponyboy desperately wants to be good. 

He helps the older man up, uncertain to as why he's still down in the first place. Ignores someone calling his name like a siren song. The voice is so soft, so familiar... It almost snatches him, and when he turns around, head cocked to listen, Mr. Marshall’s fingers find his wrist.

“See?” Mr. Marshall says, pointing at him. The pistol’s not in his other hand anymore but Pony knows it’s still here.

Does he want him to use it on himself? Ponyboy remembers feeling like he didn’t want to die. He's not sure what he wants anymore. His family would be paid if he did go... Is it so bad to want to help his brothers, his friends? Perhaps it's bad because Mr. Marshall decides they are not his family or his friends, and his word is law. 

“I told you he was sick," he says, gesturing to all of Pony. Then tone sharper, scathing, "You upset him just by being here. Can't you see how unhappy he is to see you?" 

“You bastard,” Darry’s fake says. “You _motherfucker_. Why does he look like he’s being starved, huh? You just take such good care of him he doesn't want to come home, is that it?" 

To another person, to Mr. Harrison who's very still and watching Ponyboy intently, Darry says, "Was this in his best interest? I lose my kid brother for over a year and he's been thrown in this shit hole?"

The man making a mockery of Pony’s other brother says, although he's not certain if he means Mr. Marshall or Mr. Harrison, no less calm, “I hope you got a good excuse because I’m about three seconds from tearin’ you the _fuck_ apart.” 

“I’m callin' the fuckin' fuzz,” the man portraying Two-Bit throws his hands in the air. Ponyboy's gaze follows him in this direction, and when the guy notices, he gives him this tentative, hesitant smile when slipping past him. “Hi, kid,” he says, pausing mid step. “Wanna tell me where the phone is?” 

“No,” Mr. Marshall says, grabbing Ponyboy’s upper arm. “Don’t listen to him. He’s not going to call the police. He's going to call someone else, someone worse. Don't you want to stay here with me and Maryanne? I'm only telling the truth. He’s lying to you, Michael.” 

When Ponyboy considers what they've both said, Mr. Marshall shakes him, two hands in his sweatshirt collar. "Are you seriously going to believe him? I've done nothing wrong!" 

Calmly, Two-Bit’s stolen mouth says, “I promise I'm not lyin', kid. Swear on Mickey.” 

And... It is something Two-Bit would say, if he were here. He'd try to make Ponyboy laugh by betting on something completely out of the picture, just for kicks. He's also got Two-Bit's switchblade in his back pocket.

Thinking strangely that Two-Bit’s here just to call the police, and why he’s with people impersonating their family, Ponyboy’s arm is slow to raise. He points towards the kitchen, where the landline hangs from the wall. 

“Thanks, kid,” Two-Bit says. When he slides off quietly Mr. Marshall’s grip grows even tighter, like each second Two-Bit's borrowing is one more that Ponyboy owes. He must make some sort of noise because the other four men all take a step forward. 

“No,” Mr. Marshall scolds him. Ponyboy looks at his belt, fearing and knowing what it means to disobey. When the older man smiles, everyone’s skin pales considerably. “Not right now, Michael. I want you to tell them you’re not going home with them. No matter what they want you to do. Show them how good you are.” 

“I’m not going home,” Pony echoes tonelessly. "I'm a good boy." 

Everyone looks disgusted. For once, it doesn't seem specific to him. Instead, those eyes dark with hatred are locked with Mr. Marshall's.

The man who looks like Sodapop falls apart at the seams. Holds out both of his hands and they glow golden in the pale yellow light. Ponyboy looks at him closer, stares fuzzily into those chocolate eyes and tries to remember. 

"Ponyboy, baby. You know who I am." Sodapop says, pleadingly. Then, squinting at him with sudden realization, everything turning on a dime, he shouts, "You're _dopin_ ' him?" 

Steve swears, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. " _Shit_ , Darry. He's druggin' him. Look at his pupils. Ponyboy's _high_." 

Darry's entire body shudders. He licks his lips, and then in a louder voice than Ponyboy has ever heard anyone use, "Get the _fuck_ away from my kid brother. I'm about three seconds from breakin' your fucking jaw."

“Where are the police?” Mr. Harrison gasps, panicking and jumping a foot in the air when Darry yells.

“On their way,” Two-Bit says, popping his knuckles when he slides back into the room.

Then he focuses on the man from earlier, the one he recognized as soon as someone came to the door. This quivering, shivering, pathetic man in front of him is definitely Mr. Harrison, without a doubt. A coward in sheep's clothing.

Ponyboy can’t move. His feet are grounded. He hates this man so much, because he's the reason Pony lives here, why he's been drugged and raped and fondled like a new toy. Mr. Marshall’s fingers squeeze even tighter, a warning. To Mr. Harrison, Pony says, “You… put me _here_.” 

"I did," Harrison swallows, hands raised. "And I am truly _sorry_ , Ponyboy. I promise I'll see to it you go home to your brothers. I'll be writing a recommendation as soon as this is over and you're safe."

Mr. Marshall flounders as he watches Pony consider his words. Hissing in his ear, he says, “That’s not what I taught you to say.” 

Ponyboy looks into his face, blinks at him sluggishly. He’s coming down from his high, crashing. The side effects are dangerous. The pills are wearing off. Mrs. Marshall warned him they do very quickly, which is why she’s always making him take them. With the pills she helps him sing like a mockingbird. 

Pony shakes his head. His hearing goes in and out, his face on fire. “And you… hurt me,” he tells Mr. Marshall. Adjusts, "You are... hurting me." 

There’s a bitter, angry voice. “He sure fuckin' did, kid,” Steve growls. “And we’re gonna bust him up real good, don’t you worry, Ponyboy.” 

“Michael,” Mr. Marshall says, tensely. Maybe this is a test, a voice in the back of his mind wiggles in. Like a worm in a rotten apple. They’ve come to feast on his ability to discern who’s telling the truth and who’s lying. “You must listen to me. Don’t you want to stay here? Maryanne will make you another drink. Get you one of your pills.” 

“You think this is helpin' him? Medicating him? You're hoppin' him up, gettin' him addicted to God knows what.” Darry snaps. Needing someone to blame, too stuck in his own head, he says to Harrison, "Did you know this? That he's been stuck here for God knows how long gettin' _high_? Gettin' _brainwashed_ by a stranger?" 

"No!" Harrison says quickly, head shaking. "Darrel, we'll fix this." 

Something in Ponyboy snaps too, just like it does in his oldest brother. It bends until it breaks and he doesn’t think glue can fix it this time. He wants it to be Darry, no matter what Mr. Marshall says. No matter what Mrs. Marshall whispers is right in his ears as he falls asleep. He wants it to be Darry.

He chooses to believe it is. 

Ponyboy steals another staggering step, lurching. Mr. Marshall’s weight behind him throws him off, because he's too heavy to drag with him. He’s stronger than Pony so he jerks him back by his wrist and he sprawls on the floor, loose and limp. Something in his shoulder pops and fire catches. Everyone moves to help him and stops in the same breath. 

He thinks they stop because Harrison orders them too. Pony's a hostage, he says.

Distantly, it hurts. His arm but also something emotional. Maybe he is on painkillers. Are those the pills he takes, he wonders? In the forefront of his mind the only thought bouncing around is that he really needs to get back up. 

Pony can hear sirens now. Mr. Marshall can too. 

When Mr. Marshall reaches into his back pocket, Ponyboy gets shakily to his feet. He stands in front of the man who’s violated him and hurt him. Who’s told so few truths in between so many lies that Pony doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not. 

Mr. Marshall raises the gun, and somebody grabs him around the waist and drags him backwards. Panicking, paranoia swirling in his lungs, Pony thinks it might be Sodapop. He's too weak to get away but he tries, squirming, until Sodapop voice floods into his ear. 

"Honey," Soda says desperately. "It's me. It's Soda. I'm here." 

"Soda's gone!" Ponyboy hollers at him, trying to free himself. " _Soda's_ _gone_!"

And then he goes limp, lifeless in Sodapop's grip. Soda's swearing and dropping to the ground with him, his arms wrapped under Ponyboy's armpits. His head lolls, against this impostor's chest, his eyes rolling. This is partly him crashing and mostly realizing that he yelled. The first rule here is to never raise his voice.

Mr. Marshall grins. "You have to belt him now," he says.

Soda's body stiffens behind him, feeling, smelling everything like Soda. He can't see Soda's face but he can see Darry's. Ponyboy quivers and focuses on his oldest brother, who's staring at him with a darkness he's never seen. Before Pony can pinpoint what the emotion is, his expression morphs. 

It's Darry who steps in front of the pistol.


	4. piles of broken bricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh so some of you seem to like this? i think it's garbage but i appreciate it very much. i keep going over it and editing it all the time.
> 
> more bad times this chapter. but things will eventually get better.

Mr. Marshall aims, finger on the trigger.

Ponyboy shivers against the heated body behind him, the one with warm arms and a voice honey sweet like Sodapop’s. The same man who holds Pony against his chest. There is a lifetime of memories between them containing everything he wants to recall but it’s all moving too quickly. 

It’s loud and he’s panicking. 

The gun’s aimed at Darry. 

Darry who’s standing in front of him, real. Which means the man he’s laying against must really be Sodapop. When Soda’s lips find his forehead Pony knows it’s him, a sob rising in his throat. 

Mr. Marshall’s words, telling Soda or Darry to belt him, ring around in his ears. Ponyboy’s quaking hands find Sodapop’s, clasped together over his chest, silently asking if he’ll do it. 

“You’re real,” Pony whispers to his brother. “You’re real. You’re here.” 

Soda looks at him, opens his mouth and shuts it, but Ponyboy’s too busy watching Darry wrangle with Mr. Marshall to notice. Darry’s got guns but not this kind. 

Sodapop says quietly, anyways, “Honey, what did they  _ do _ to you?” 

Mr. Harrison shouts, “The police are outside! If you shoot, you’ll go down.” 

Mr. Marshall looks past Darry, past Harrison, in his direction. Ponyboy knows he isn’t looking for Sodapop. Legs trembling, Pony extricates his brother’s hands from his chest. 

Soda almost stops him. Instead, they rise together. 

“You won’t win,” Mr. Marshall spits. “No matter what you do. You have no idea what I’ve done to him.” 

Steve’s eyes narrow. Two-Bit brandishes his switch. 

Then, as if he’s a dog, Marshall gestures for Pony. Darry’s words in his mind, telling him to use his head. Tail tucked, he takes one step forward, and Sodapop drags him two back. 

“Baby,  _ no _ ,” Soda says, gripping him tighter. “Ponyboy, he’s a bad man. Don’t listen to him.” 

His skin is littered with pins and needles. Sore and disoriented, Ponyboy swallows, “I know.”

“Ponyboy,” Darry says, drawing in his attention. He looks at Steve, and then Two-Bit. “You need to get out of here. Mr. Harrison can take you outside to wait for the police.” 

Darry and Sodapop left him here, didn’t they? It would be fair, some sort of cosmic justice, for him to do the same. But then Ponyboy remembers the pills and the doubt. The poisonous words whispered in his ears. Mr. Marshall’s hands roaming his body.

Remembers his life before the boy’s home. Before the Marshalls. He wants to go home. 

“Come here, Michael,” Mr. Marshall croons. “He left you, remember? They never called you. They don’t want you.” 

Ponyboy clasps his hands over his ears. Eyes clenched shut. 

“That’s not true!” Sodapop yells. 

The room fuels tension and builds upon fear. Every time one of them panics, Pony thinks distantly, things escalate. 

“Pony, you have to know how hard we looked for you,” Soda says, hands on his shoulders. “We were here all the time, tryin’ to get in. For  _ months _ .” 

“I won’t leave you!” Pony cries. 

“Ponyboy,” Darry repeats, eyes softening. “ _ Go _ .” 

Steve says, grabbing him by the arm, “Kid, c’mon. Let’s get outta here.” 

Two-Bit starts too late, “Steve, don’t-”

Pony jumps, feeling like he’s been burned. His skin is on fire and he’s sweating ashes. Deliriously he wonders how the hell Johnny survived the fire. 

He gasps, and Soda’s best friend lets go of him, jerking back. Soda’s hands under his arms, keeping him back, are just enough to keep him standing. 

“Shit, Pony,” Steve says. “I-”

Mr. Marshall’s playing with his gun, scratching the side of his head with the barrel. It’s coming back to him. In pieces, Pony’s beginning to understand. He’s not sane, not by a long shot, but this makes sense. The pill fizzles and dies inside of him.

Later, his doctor will tell him that his adrenaline is the only thing that kept him going.

So, Ponyboy does what he does best: he runs. He runs and Mr. Marshall’s aiming for the center of his oldest brother’s chest, but Darry can’t see him. He’s watching Ponyboy race towards him, startled.

Too stunned to move, Sodapop grasps empty air a second too late and screams, “ _ No _ !” 

“Kid!” Two-Bit shouts.

Darry almost snags him, jolting into movement. He throws an arm out into the space he expects Ponyboy’s brittle legs will carry him. 

But Pony’s been running for a long time now. 

He tackles Mr. Marshall, hands reaching for the pistol. There’s a horrible noise that makes his ears ring and his stomach turn, but Ponyboy’s on top now. He straddles the older man’s lap and somehow manages to grab the gun. 

It’s warm in his hand. Ponyboy remembers hunting with his dad, how he couldn’t kill a single thing. Dad always said Pony had the sharpest eyes in the family, but that he was too good to shoot. 

Ponyboy doesn’t think that’s true now. He crawls backwards on his ass, the pistol shaking in his hands. There’s red and something inside of him hurts. Hurts worse than any physical pain he’s felt this far. And he thinks he might be the source of the bleeding, but there’s red on Mr. Marshall too. 

Pony wants to believe Mr. Marshall’s the only one wounded, even if he knows the truth. He sits there for a moment, kneeling like he never wanted to, eyes closed and the gun heavy in his palm. 

There is an eternity in these heartbeats. He wonders if this is how Dallas felt when he died. The power he has and doesn’t want. Somehow he finds a way to get up.

Nobody moves, and then Mr. Harrison’s ducking out of the way of the front door. Distantly Ponyboy hears it slam open against the wall. A picture frame shatters. 

“Pony?” Someone says.

He can’t tear his eyes away from the man on the floor. 

He thinks about what Jim said, about boys who lose hope and do stupid things. 

“Do it,” Mr. Marshall says, smirking at him. “If you’re man enough, you’ll do it. If you’re good enough.” 

He buckles, but his knees lock. His breath hitches in his chest, something wet and gurgling when he tries to inhale. He chokes his way past it.

Pony’s hearing is still fuzzy but he narrows in on this despicable creature. When Mr. Marshall goads him again it takes him several seconds to blink away the static in his eyes.

If Darry and Sodapop really are here, are actually real and tangible and not some fabrication, then they can fix this. 

Somebody has to know how. Ponyboy doesn’t.

“Put the gun down,” somebody says. Ponyboy’s gaze bounces off of a police officer, and he blanches. Is he under Mr. Marshall’s control, too? “Son, everything’s alright. Put the gun down. You’re not in any trouble.” 

Pony looks desperately around, at faces he never dreamed he’d see again, and at new ones. Faces of people who might hurt him despite insisting they won’t. 

“Pony,” Sodapop breathes, voice choked, and Ponyboy nearly goes to him. Then Darry says, very gently, “Pony, honey, you’re hurt. Put the gun down.” 

Ponyboy swallows back the blood rising in his throat. Lowers his head and pants, watches a long trail of it ooze from his mouth like drool. He’s sick to his stomach. He puts one hand over his belly and then lowers the hand with the gun in it. 

He steps back again. He can feel Sodapop and Darry just behind him, the air stirring when they open their arms and tear down his walls. Ponyboy built them up so he could survive this place. 

Built them so he could survive losing his brothers. 

“Come back to me, baby,” Sodapop whispers. “Come back with me.” 

Two-Bit’s to his left suddenly, appearing from a black cloud in his peripheral. When Ponyboy lifts his head and stares at him, his best buddy’s staring right back. “Hey, hey,” Two-Bit says, when he wobbles. “Hey, kid, hey. We’re here. We’re all here. Stevie, too.” 

“I don’t…” Ponyboy blinks slowly at him. There’s something very wet that rolls down his chin when he speaks, clotting in his teeth. His words are slurred when he says, “I don’t feel good, Keith.” 

“I know, kid,” Two-Bit soothes, showing him both of his hands flat. Extended so Ponyboy can surrender the power into his more responsible hands. “I know. That’s why you need to put the gun down. So they can help you.” 

Ponyboy trembles, debating, and his grip loosens. Through watery lungs he starts, “Okay… I-” 

Then the gun’s gone from his hands, somebody hollering. He reels in shock, staggering from the force of it. Ponyboy nearly falls and Two-Bit grabs him, holding him upright. 

A police officer has his gun out too. But it’s not pointed at Ponyboy. 

Instead, at Mr. Marshall, who is in fact, still aiming for Pony.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Two-Bit says, darkly. “Shoot the kid again and see what happens.” 

“Do not shoot,” the officer snaps, glaring at Ponyboy’s friend. “George Marshall, you are under arrest. You’ve got a warrant a mile long. You wanna add murder to that list?” 

Ponyboy pales. Looks at his red palms. He thinks he understands why there’s blood in his mouth, why Sodapop and Darry are so desperate for him to come to them. He flinches when a rivulet of blood escapes down his thigh and around the back of his knee. Others follow, like tears, without his palms covering the wound. 

Two-Bit’s trying to get him to sit down, murmuring low into his ear. Pony tries to tell him he can’t hear, that he’s so far gone, but his buddy continues. Pony thinks about how much he missed him, how he never got to say goodbye when they’d first taken him to the boy’s home. 

Another police officer says when he tries to focus, half out the door, “Kid’s already been shot. Get an ambulance here now!”

Steve’s snapping when Ponyboy returns to the land of the living, his voice strange., “Mother _ fucker _ … Just give up already! You’ve lost!” 

“No,” Mr. Marshall says, strangely. “I’ll never lose.”

There’s another loud noise, louder than before, that feels incredibly close to his head. The sound ricochets in his mind, playing pool with his thoughts. He makes friends with the sensation unwillingly. 

For some reason, Ponyboy’s legs go out. Two-Bit tries to catch him, but he’s lifeless, and slips out of his hands. “What the- oh, holy  _ fuck _ ! Fuck!”

He comes crashing down like a log with no one yelling timber. He wonders if he still makes a sound? Pony lands on his shoulder, the one that’s all messed up, and watches red soak the carpet in front of his face. 

There’s stickiness in his hair. On his hands. He doesn’t understand why it doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, not even his belly or his lungs. He can’t breathe but he’s starting to feel strangely like he doesn’t need to anymore. 

“Oh my God!” Somebody shrieks. Ponyboy thinks it might be Harrison. “Oh my God!”

“You shot him in the fuckin’ head!” 

“Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my-”

“Somebody shut him up! He’s down, Marshall’s down,” then distantly, sounding very far away, an order, “...otta check the kid. Check on the kid!”

Finally, Harrison’s quiet. Ponyboy’s indebted to whoever tells him to shut the hell up. People drop down beside him, slow with shock. A caress on the back of his head, so gentle it feels like a breeze. 

A door thundering shut. Everyone’s always slamming doors around here. Then boots on the flooring muffled by carpet. He can hear one of the men’s keys jingling in his pants pockets as he works. 

“Where’s the wife?” 

“Gone, OD’d.” 

“Jesus,” the reply. “Now?” 

“Based on the smell I’d say more like…”

He’s bored of that. Does it mean Mrs. Marshall is gone, too? She’d been in her room for so long. Her husband hadn’t been sleeping with her recently. He’d been busy in Ponyboy’s bed, taking and taking everything that Pony has left.

Something tells Pony that they’ll both haunt him forever. 

Ponyboy’s unblinking where he lays. It’s easier this way, to lie here thinking about the mysteries of his tragic past and present. There’s something startlingly soothing about watching the white carpet run red. His clothes are red, too. 

His face is hot. There’s a strange sensation above his eye and at his temple. There’s blood in his nostrils, pooling in his lashes. It fills his mouth and trickles out the side. Ponyboy’s still not sure he needs to breathe, but a pressure in his chest forces him to inhale no matter how much it feels like drowning.

When Pony tries to investigate his discoveries, his fingers twitch limp, arms strewn beneath and beside him. Half on his stomach, somebody rolls him fully onto his back. 

Two-Bit’s face is next, a halo of light beyond his head. He looks like an angel, his skin bleached white. Except, there’s a streak of red across his face, splattered. Pony wonders if it’s his blood. 

“No, kid,” Two-Bit’s moaning, his hands shiny and wet, “ _ no, no, no, no, no _ . Shit fuck, Ponyboy… no, no, no, no, no.” 

Then Soda and Darry are hovering over him. They’re talking but the words don’t make sense. Pony lends them his ear and they talk gibberish.

Finally, something filters through the chaos, “Baby,  _ hold on _ . C’mon, Ponyboy. We just got you back. C’mon.” 

More chatter, then: “Don’t do this to me, Ponyboy. Don’t do this to me.” 

There are more noises now, more movement. Darry’s old man coat is pressed against his abdomen. His brothers push, with both hands, down  _ hard _ . 

It finally hits him like an 18-wheeler. He’s flattened, crushed under its weight. The pain draws a gurgled, breathy moan from his chest. Ponyboy asks where’s it been after all these years and it tells him it was on vacation. 

Pony’s eyes roll in his head. After all these months, waiting for them to come rescue him, ironically they do they first thing Mr. Marshall promised they would. Unwilling or not, Ponyboy’s brothers do, in fact, hurt him.

It’s not funny and it hurts so bad, in his heart and head, in his body, but Ponyboy tries to laugh anyways. Tries and then chokes at the effort.

There are different hands now. Someone wiping at his eyelids, across his face. Serious words that he can’t understand once again. Darry told him to use his head and he’s trying so  _ hard _ . 

Ponyboy tries to focus on them, on the sentences spewing between clenched teeth. But no one will repeat what they’re saying, and they can’t hear him. His thoughts. It’s frustrating and he’s embarrassed. 

They move him, and he’s gone. 


	5. sign posts on the path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i swear there will be happy times eventually. sorry to my very kind reviewer, ponyboy michael curtis. i promise i will make everything as right as it can be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is a dream where ponyboy kinda flashes back to mr. marshall but it's nothing terribly explicit. still, be safe kiddies.

He finds out that he slept for a very long time. 

Ponyboy wakes up in a hospital with his body sewn back together. His stomach’s killing him and his chest aches like he’s been kicked in the ribs again. There’s something wrong with his eye and the side of his head, and his skin itches vehemently. Something thick and hard and cold in his throat. It forces oxygen into his lungs

When he comes to, his doctors check his pupillary reaction and blind him. Someone tells him to say “ah” and cough long and hard, despite knowing his lungs are filled with fluid.

Pony does as they ask, gagging when the tube slides out of his mouth, taking all of his spit with it. Cotton mouthed, he stares at the device that breathed for him when he could not. He wonders what damage has been done.

He rakes his nails over a tingling spot on one of his arms and feels the sting of an IV jostle at the movement. The nurse accompanying his doctor is gentle when she speaks. “Try not to scratch too much, sugar. I know it itches, but if you can help it, don’t scratch.”

Used to obeying an order, Pony nods. 

His doctor introduces himself, his hair gray, his smile kind. Ponyboy thinks about trust, and who he should be loyal too. Eventually, he shakes the man’s hand. 

“You’ve been out of it for a long time, son,” Doctor Stage says, looking at him over his glasses. “Do you remember what happened?” 

Voice hoarse and his throat sore, Pony nods hesitantly. Feels panic swirl in his empty stomach. “Yes,” he says needlessly. 

His doctor sighs, although he doesn’t seem exasperated with him. His nurse offers to fluff his pillows and Pony blinks at her, surprised by her kindness. Doctor Stage takes off his glasses and rubs a hand down his long face. 

“Where to start?” He mumbles. Clearing his throat, he smiles and Pony tries his best to reciprocate. “I won’t mention him, if you don’t want me to. But that man did nearly starve you to death, as I’m sure you know. Your iron, potassium, vitamin C and D - it’s all very low.” 

Nurse Jenny quirks her mouth, looking very sad for him. “Sugar, did you ever go outside?” 

Ponyboy thinks, or tries to. He stares at his ghastly skin and wonders where the sun's gone. His head hurts and his gut instinct tells him not to speak ill of Mr. Marshall. He’s not even supposed to talk at all. But he does have questions...

“Is he dead?” He asks quietly, instead. 

“Yes,” Stage says. Lowering his voice, grinning behind his hand, he whispers, “ _Hallelujah_. He was shot the same day you were.”

Pony smiles. It's good to know, even if it's technically immoral for a healer to be glad at the loss of a life. Somebody's on his side at last.

Focusing on his body, he pauses. He’s pretty sure he’s still withdrawing but at least he’s in a hospital. Ponyboy touches the bandages on the side of his head and grimaces. 

“Don’t touch, sugar,” Nurse Jenny chides, gently batting his hand away. "You don't wanna pull your stitches out." 

“Yes, that shot could have ended it all,” Doctor Stage sobers, his shoulders hunching. He seems very old suddenly, much older than Pony thinks he is. “Son, that bullet clipped above your eye and your temple. I’m sorry to say it’ll scar.” 

He's very aware that it could angled slightly lower and gone through his eye. It could have traveled through his head in Planck time and blown out the back of his head. He's aware of all of it, and knows his mortality. But he's alive and Mr. Marshall isn't. 

Of all the scars Ponyboy bares, he thinks that this one may be the easiest to carry.

“The first bullet ricocheted in your chest. It entered your chest and collapsed your left lung, before nicking your small bowel. We patched you up just fine, and you’ll be sore for a long while yet, but you’re alive.” 

He hopes it’s a good thing. Staring at his scarred hands, appearing clean even though he knows they aren’t, he asks, “The ventilator?” 

“You had a hard time breathing on your own,” Nurse Jenny supplies soothingly. “When you first made it to the ER, you’d already crashed twice. We did the surgery, but you slipped into a coma.” 

It's true that each breath feels part gift and part stolen.

Brows bunched, Doctor Stage finishes, “You’ve been out for three weeks. We were all worried about you, son. You put your family through the ringer.” 

Pony lowers his head, thinking about it. Part of him is confused, because his family was there when he was shot. But he remembers being alone for a very long time, for a year, stuck with the Marshalls, who were supposed to take care of him. Ponyboy wonders if medicating him and beating him still counts as taking care of someone. 

Doctor Stage must realize he’s drifted, because his palm finds Pony’s knee beneath the blanket. Eyes soft, he says, “Ponyboy, none of that was your fault. They were very bad people, and they hurt you in inexcusable ways.” 

He bites his lip. He has so many questions. He wants to see his family, and his gang of brothers. See his best buddy and Steve, who cares despite however much he denies it. But he feels low, lower than dirt, and wholly undeserving. Imagining them wanting him, having missed him this whole time, goes against every law the Marshalls claimed as fact. 

“Your brothers are at work. They're always here, clogging up the room and sneaking in gifts for you.” Nurse Jenny says. Tenderly, touching his wrist with the same nurturing overtone Pony’s mother used to use, she settles another blanket over his legs. She checks her watch, big brown eyes squinting at it. “But Mr. Curtis said he’d be back by 3.” 

Darry works later than that. Maybe he’s been spending his evenings watching Ponyboy sleep, stroking his thumb over Pony’s knuckles. He can see him now, with that drawn expression and those half-lidded eyes. 

He knows his mind was and is twisted because of the pills. Pony knows it all. He feels like he’s been watching his life on the other side of a glass window pane. Feels like maybe he’s still haunting the mirror in his bathroom at the Marshalls’ house. 

To comfort himself, he looks beside his bed, warmed by the sight of gifts from his family. A stuffed horse that's definitely a gift from Sodapop, because it looks just like Mickey. A book from Darry, one he's never ready before. He thinks the pocket knife might be one of Two-Bit's, and there's a wrapped up box from Steve. Pony has to smile, imagining Sodapop's best friend wrapping a gift and getting tape stuck all over his fingers. 

“Feel free to get some more rest,” Doctor Stage says, patting his knee. 

Ponyboy _is_ tired, somehow, and it would be so easy to slip back into unconsciousness. But a flicker of paranoia lights in his chest and steals away the brief glee he felt. A single question repeats itself a hundred times over, niggling at the back of his mind. 

If he sleeps, will he wake up again? 

Besides, it’s already 1:13, and if Darry really will come for him so soon, Ponyboy won’t risk it. Nurse Jenny turns on his TV and he watches a terrible, cheesy soap that rots his brain. He's never watched a soap opera in his life, and he wasn't allowed to watch TV unless it was during the hour the Marshalls' did. 

It’s a distraction, and a welcome one at that.

-

“Ponyboy?” 

His head lolls, his eyes rolling towards the doorway. Blinking dazedly, wondering if the hospital and it’s people are all one elaborate hallucination, he asks, “Darry?” 

Feeling responsible, Pony watches his oldest brother hesitate before coming to him. Part of him realizes that Darry could sit with him when he was sleeping because Ponyboy wasn’t awake to fear him.

It might be the hospital’s painkillers, but Pony doesn’t think he’s scared of him anymore. He can hear Mr. Marshall telling him not to speak and to behave, and Mrs. Marshall whispering sweet nothings in his ears like a serpent.

Bravely, Ponyboy weakly flops one hand palm side up and Darry’s finds it, squeezing gently. 

“How are you feelin’?” Darry asks him. 

Pony shrugs. He’s feeling everything and nothing all at once, like his mind’s back at work blocking what it finds is harmful. Like it did when Johnny died, how he convinced himself he murdered Bob. But he hangs onto the memory of Mr. Marshall dying in the same miserable way he almost did. It fuels him.

“I missed you, baby,” Darry whispers. “I promise I looked for you. I came by that house _so_ _damn_ _often_. Always the same excuse, that you were sick and I couldn’t see you. I knew something was wrong.” Pausing, voice husky, Darry’s lower lip quivers. “I should have fought harder. By the time I got someone to listen to me, it was almost too late.” 

Realizing it’s the truth, Pony tells him softly, honestly, “I don’t blame you.” 

Darry laughs, the sound of it ringing in his ears. Wiping at his eyes furiously, Pony’s older brother purses his lips and looks away. After a long silence, Darry says simply, “I missed you.”

Uncertain, unsure of the consequences, Ponyboy reaches for his brother and feels those big arms wrap around him. Darry’s arms bundle him up, and for a second he’s scared Darry might squish him, but he’s warm, much warmer than Pony himself is. Warm like the sun. Like Sodapop.

Darry’s never looked more open, not even when he found Ponyboy standing in the Marshalls’ living room. Found him, even when Pony didn’t know he was looking. 

“I missed you more than you know,” Ponyboy says. 

“Is… Do you need to talk about anything? Is there any way I can help?” 

Pony studies him, noticing features he’s never looked at twice before. Notes the slight deepness of his set-back eyes, his strong brow. The kick of his hair at the nape of his neck. He wonders how he ever thought Darry’s eyes were ice cold. 

It’s his turn to laugh, even though it feels damn near empty. “I don’t think you can save me this time.” 

Both hands on his own now, Darry looks him in the eyes. “I can try.” 

-

He dreams of Mr. Marshall’s hands. Too big and too large and too strong, always pressing down on him. Those same hands on his hips, at his spine. Those same hands handling a belt he had only to beat Pony with. 

And then he dreams about being shot, how loud the gunfire was. The feeling of it tearing through his body, how distant it had been at the time forgotten. The pain blooms in him now, arcs out from his torso and into his limbs. He dreams of an earthquake shaking the ground beneath his feet. Falling into the cracks of the earth and letting it swallow him whole. 

One fist breaks through the dirt and he claws, fingers spread, wishing too late that somebody will latch on and save him. 

But the world eats him up anyways. The world forgets him, because it’s easy to. 

-

Pony comes to and Sodapop’s palms are on either side of his head, holding him together. Careful of the bandages, his brother’s grip is loose, his chocolate eyes watery.

Panting, coughing, Ponyboy looks up into the eyes of the person he never thought he’d live to see again. If he didn’t feel like his heart would implode in his chest, he thinks he’d make a better effort to comfort him. Sodapop lets go of his head, his arms falling to his sides. Sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, he and Pony are alone in the gloom. 

“He can’t hurt you no more,” Soda whispers into his hair. Ponyboy buries his face into his brother’s chest, relieved beyond comprehension that he’s tangible and authentic. “I promise, baby. I would've killed him myself if they hadn’t beat me to it.” 

Pony sniffs, then sobs. “I thought you were never going to find me. I… I thought you weren’t even _lookin’_.” 

Sodapop’s voice is broken, cracked right down the middle. His long arms curl around him, his fingers threading through Pony’s hair and rubbing down his spine. “Oh, honey… I promised we looked. Every damn day Darry and I went down to the Child Services Office and spoke our minds. Finally, somebody listened.”

“I…” Pony doesn’t even know if it’s open to him anymore, but he says, “I want to go _home_.” 

“You are goin’ home,” Soda promises, smiling sweetly at him. Relieved to be the bearer of good news, his brother moves with purpose. “Darry and I - we testified, and Steve and Two-Bit did too. Even your shitty social worker, Harrison or whatever, fought for you. That motherfucker that had you couldn’t argue against it, and neither could his wife. We got custody back, baby. You’re goin’ home.” 

“Really?” 

“Really,” Sodapop grins with glistening eyes. “I missed you. Even your nightmares.” 

Pony tries to laugh. “Oh, Soda… You shouldn’t.” His smile falls, his courage dissolving. “I… I know he’s dead, but he’s in my _head_ , Soda. Every time I do somethin’ I wonder what he’ll do to me.” 

“He won’t do nothin’,” Soda says firmly, swearing under his breath. “I promise you, honey. He’s dead and rotting in the ground. I’ll kill him again if I have to.” 

Ponyboy doesn’t doubt that he would. Apprehensive, feeling guilty, he turns his face away. Instead of saying something, literally anything else, he asks, “Stay with me?” 

He doesn’t know what time it is. It’s dark and Darry’s not here. But Sodapop doesn’t seem worried by either of these things, so he tries not to worry too. Wary of his wires and IVs and tubes, his older brother crawls into his hospital bed and Pony curls into him. 

Drifting, feeling more at peace than he has in a very long time, he’s almost asleep when Soda speaks. 

“I love you, honey. I missed you so goddamn much.” 

Sleepily, Pony tells him, “I love you, too.” 

-

Steve's gift is a Swiss Army knife. Ponyboy weighs it in his hands, aware of its power. Two-Bit's switch accompanies it well. Both of them go in his back pocket. 

-

He’s awake when Two-Bit and Steve visit him, napping here and there to regain his strength. He’s watching another soap when they arrive that hurts his ears, but he doesn’t change the channel. 

Two-Bit greets him joyously, although his voice and actions are muted. With a slightly less jumbled mind now that he’s not hopped up on pills, Pony can see what the past year has done to his best friend. 

Two-Bit’s skin is paler, the shadows beneath his lower lashes more prominent. He moves hesitantly towards him, terrified of spooking him, his gray eyes a storm. 

Despite the torture Pony’s been through, he knows he can give him this. Stretching his arms out wide, he beckons him. His heart beats faster, more lively, as he watches Two-Bit swoop towards him with a cheesy grin. 

He smells good, wearing the same cologne he’s always worn. Ponyboy hugs him longer than necessary, remembering a much happier time where they both felt they could laugh, enjoying the sensation of Two-Bit holding on just as long. 

Releasing him eventually, Two-Bit ruffles his hair. “How they treatin’ you here, kid?” 

Pony smiles, glad to speak of mundane things. “It’s fine,” he says. “I just woke up though a couple days ago, and I’m still pretty fuzzy.” 

Steve eyes him, although his gaze isn’t unkind. “Got enough people waitin’ on you hand and foot?” 

Ponyboy worries his lip. He opens his mouth, unsure of how to respond. 

Two-Bit saves the day, raising a hand to block Steve’s sight of his mouth. “Don’t listen to him, kid. He missed you.” 

He can’t help it; it makes him grin, and when he glances back at Steve the older boy’s cheeks have gained a slight dusting of red. Coming closer, Soda’s best friend snags a chair with his foot and plops down in it. 

Chewing on his thumb, Pony waits for one of his quick remarks. 

But Steve looks at him differently, which makes him feel settled and unsettled all at once. He doesn’t want things to have changed, but they have, and they’ll keep doing so, no matter how hard he fights. 

Finally, the older man says, “Kid, I… I’ve been thinkin’.” 

“Uh, oh,” Two-Bit teases.

Glaring, rubbing the back of his neck, Steve retorts, “At least I have a brain, you lazy bum.” 

Mock hurt, Two-Bit grasps at his chest and collapses into the chair behind him, dropping ungracefully against the faux leather. 

Steve shakes his head, then sobers. Green eyes an ember instead of a flame, he says, “I was thinkin’ while you were gone. Some more when you got all messed up by that guy... Kid, you know I don’t hate you, right?” 

Blinking, Ponyboy flounders. Caught off guard, he says quickly, “Of course.” 

Steve sighs, looking uncomfortable. “I mean it, kid. I don’t hate you.” 

“Why are you being so nice?” Pony asks, hesitantly. He hasn’t talked this much in many months, and his voice feels unsteady in his throat. He wasn’t allowed to talk, wasn’t supposed to. People caring again, asking about him once more, is a new reality he has to face. "I... I really like your gift." 

Without looking at him, Steve hooks an arm around his shoulder. He smells like the DX and very faintly of Sodapop. His grip is lax, much softer than he’d been expecting. 

“Because… Oh, Hell, kid.” Steve stumbles over his words, irritated when he looks at the TV. “Because this past year, watchin’ your brothers fall apart, watchin’ that clown get a job, made me realize somethin’.”

As if the words taste like vinegar, Steve adds quietly, “We just couldn’t make it without you.” 

Pony’s touched, unsure of how to respond. So he does another thing he’s very good at: he hugs Steve Randle and he’s not sure which of them is more surprised. 

Pony thinks Steve hugging him back just as tightly is the best part. 

-

“I can’t do much for you,” Mr. Harrison says, handing him the file. It opens in his hands. Written in big, bold lettering, the paperwork confirms Darry will receive permanent custody of him. “But you get to go home, Ponyboy. I’m… I’m sorry that I did this to you. I pray this fixes it.” 

Darry and Sodapop at his shoulders are tense. Jaw tight, his teeth grinding and lighting sparks, Pony says nothing. There is nothing to say, even if he wishes he were grateful. 

He feels absolutely nothing towards this man. No amount of apologizing can fix what he’s done, and Pony doesn’t know if he can forgive him. Maybe it’s not even in his hands anymore to forgive people. 

“Thank you,” Darry says, white mouthed. “Thank you.” 

-

His back is a road map of undesirable locations. Looking over his shoulder into the hospital mirror, Ponyboy understands why Mr. Marshall always eyed him with disgust. 

A belt buckle here, the lash long and diagonal across his shoulder blades. A dotted line of cigarette burns. A slash of a knife. 

He lowers his gaze, turning around to inspect his front. 

Here he makes unlikely friends with a bullet hole, the scar puckered. On his ribs, a star shaped mess where the chest tube entered and reinflated his lung. 

His navel is scarred as well, and focusing in on his naked form, Pony regards himself with sadness. He should have fought harder. He’s not sure anyone will want him after this. 

He’s still shocked that his brothers want anything to do with them, no matter how many times they tell him they looked for him. He looks back onto his hazy year and wonders what pills he took, what was in Mrs. Marshall’s special drinks. 

He feels empty. Hollow. Carved like an ice sculpture, melting and water racing in trickles down its form. They say his hands are clean but Ponyboy knows they aren’t. 

-

He gets to go home with the promise that Darry will bring him back for therapy. Pony doesn’t want to go, not at all, but Soda pleads with him, and Darry’s blue eyes look shiny, like he’s ready to weep. 

He’s doing it for them, he tells himself. He won’t be selfish, and do this for himself. He hasn’t earned it. Maybe he never will.

Nurse Jenny hands him the bag of clothes his brothers have packed for him. Quickly disappearing into the bathroom, knowing his brothers will question then know why he’s shy suddenly, Ponyboy throws on his clothes without looking into the mirror. 

He comes back out and Darry’s got a wheelchair for him, waiting for him to sit down so they can go home. Pony wants to walk, but he says nothing, hoping the outside will taste as free as he dreams it does.

Sodapop’s got the truck pulled up to the hospital entrance, twirling the keys on one finger as he watches them approach. Scooping him up in a hug, Ponyboy’s brother squeezes too tight and loves very deeply. 

He realizes, as Darry pushes him past the threshold, that he hasn’t been outside in over a year. Aside of school, which he didn't even get to finish, he's been in that house. He hasn’t felt wind on him, has seen no sunsets or sunrises. Knowing this and feeling apprehensive, Pony tells his oldest brother to stop. 

He can walk now, so he does. He stumbles out of his wheelchair and feels dwarfed by his old clothes. Pony’s weak and his limbs shake. He must look like an idiot out here, unable to fix himself.

None of it matters.

The air is so warm, and it smells so good. It’s everything he dreamed about and more. He almost forgot what it felt like to be under the heat of the sun. Overhead, it casts its rays down onto him and raising his hands, across the flesh of his palms. 

Despite himself, Pony cries. He stands in the middle of the hospital parking lot and cries into his hands. 

Sodapop grabs him up, cooing, shushing, and Darry follows suit, his touch gentle. No one asks why he’s crying.

In the car, Ponyboy is squashed between his brothers. They’re pressed up against him and too close, but he doesn’t want to runaway anymore. He’s good at it, because he’s been running for a long time now. He hopes it’s not a skill he’ll need to use again. 

Curling up in the cab, a tight little ball, Pony lowers his head and rests it in Soda’s lap. His fingers thread through his hair almost instantaneously, soft and sweet and forgiving. 

It becomes clear to him then, that they really do love him. 

And having this gift, having these people love him, should be an extraordinary revelation. But something curdles in Ponyboy’s stomach, sloshing around whenever he thinks too hard. 

Because he realizes that even sick pedophiles like Mr. Marshall can love. They’re capable of it, no matter how twisted that love is. These people still have emotions, and they can still hold affection for the things they adore. 

They can also hurt. 

-

Being home, Ponyboy decides, isn’t as wonderful as he expected. 

It’s no one’s fault. Darry and Soda stay with him when they aren’t working, and if they are then Two-Bit or Steve usually swing by. Everyone tries to cheer him up, and he appreciates it, he does.

Nothing makes sense anymore. At night he lays awake in his and Sodapop’s bed and thinks. Without the sleeping pills, his mind won’t quiet. His soul is awake. 

Sometimes he trembles and scoots closer to Soda, yearning for comfort, which his brother always delivers. He's too old to sleep with a stuffed animal, but the horse his brother got him stays tucked under one arm.

Sometimes, Pony gets out of bed and locks himself in the bathroom. He stares at Darry’s sharp razor and remembers the pain he felt. How he wished it’d end, how Mrs. Marshall promised it was so easy to die. Pilfering through the cabinet behind the mirror, Pony knows Darry will have hidden or thrown away any possibly harmful pills. 

He still looks though. Sometimes he falls asleep on the floor by the toilet, sick to his stomach, his body trying to regurgitate its last meal. Usually, Darry finds him. Being the first one up has its perks, apparently. 

Finding Ponyboy sprawled there, limp and lifeless, Darry’s heart stops every time. He gathers Ponyboy up in his arms and deposits him either back in bed or on the couch. 

Sometimes Pony wakes to Two-Bit or Steve coming over. For work and for babysitting. Other times it’s Sodapop who wakes him, the back of his hand on his forehead, feeling his absence in bed. Checking for fever, Soda kisses him before heading off to work. When Darry follows, his sad eyes burn into Pony’s skin, making him itch. 

Today Two-Bit’s pestering him, drinking more of their beer. Pony doesn’t count the bottles. Finally, he asks, “Don’t you have a job?” 

“ _Did_ have a job,” Two-Bit says, grinning. 

“What happened?” He says. 

“Eh, I only had it while you were away. Gotta keep busy, you know?” Two-Bit’s not facing him, but Pony notes the tension in his features when he speaks, the tremble of the hand holding the neck of the bottle. "I was bored without you taggin' along. Haven't watched a movie in awhile."

He lets the silence run him through, feeling it scrape his insides. Head aching, he watches his best buddy watch Mickey. Eventually, he says simply, “I missed you, Two-Bit.” 

“Hell, kid,” Two-Bit swears, turning to face him. He climbs up off the floor and plops down on the couch beside him, letting Ponyboy lean into his side. “I missed you, too.” 

“I was gone a long time,” he says, strangely. He’s confused suddenly, questioning how long its been. Wondering if Two-Bit knows, he waits for his answer. 

“Sure were, Pone,” Two-Bit agrees, lips pursed. 

“How long?” He asks. 

His friend pauses mid swig, slowly lowering the bottle from his mouth. Swallowing, Two-Bit blinks at him. “Over a year, kid. A long time, that’s for sure.” 

“Oh,” Pony echoes, clarity returning. Flushing, pale faced, he says, “I knew that.” 

“Of course,” Two-Bit says, in a tone that suggests he knows Pony didn’t. “Has Darry let you outta the house yet?” 

He pales. His brothers wouldn’t really keep him locked up here, right? He’s supposed to be free now. That was part of the deal. 

Two-Bit’s expression tightens. “Shit, Ponyboy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. He untangles his legs from his kneeling position and slips off the couch cushion. “It’s okay.” 

“Kid,” Two-Bit starts, hands extended. “Don’t-” 

Ponyboy forgets they have a coffee table, and he rams his shin directly into one of the sides. The force of his upper body still in movement causes him to wobble and tumble over the table completely. 

Laying flat on his back on the other side, Pony is a tangle of limbs too long and too thin. He closes his eyes, placing both of his palms over his clenched eyes. 

Two-Bit’s hands at both of his wrists, soft but forcefully pulling his hands from his face. Sounding panicked, Pony’s best buddy kneels beside him. 

“Kid?” A pause, then: “Shit, Pony. Your shin’s bleedin’. I need to check your stitches.” 

Pony won’t look at him. He’s embarrassed, and ashamed. He’s never forgotten about his home before, not in this way. He wondered if it really existed in the same way, but he never forgot anything about it. Even something as simple as a coffee table. 

Two-Bit sounds miserable. “Sweetheart,” which he’s never called him before but the pet name feels good, “I swear to God, kid. I feel awful about this. Please let me fix it.” 

Lowering his hands minutely to his sides, Pony blinks up at him, unable to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

Two-Bit’s expression flits to confusion, his gray eyes sorrowful. “Pony, why are you sorry? I’m the one who opened my dumb mouth and got you hurt.” 

He shakes his head. His lower lip quivers but he lets Two-Bit help him sit up. His shin aches, a pulsing pain every time his heart beats. Swallowing, Pony says, “‘s not your fault. I’m sorry I freaked out and fell.” 

One of Two-Bit’s hands is reassuring at his spine. Ponyboy looks away, screwing his face up, fumbling fingers finding the edge of his shirt. 

Lifting it up, he watches Two-Bit’s face pale. He looks unhappy and angry at the same time, studying the scars on Pony’s body, inspecting old bruises and logging fresh ones. Both of them are aware he's not torn any stitches, but neither of them move. 

Finally, Two-Bit clenches his teeth. “Pony… I swear to God, if that fucker was still alive, I’d end him right now.” 

Pony’s taken aback. He thought Two-Bit was going to yell at him. He's never seen him so serious and it scares him, the world changing. Knowing he’s not, feeling a bit better, he slowly pulls his shirt off over his head. 

He’s exposed. Vulnerable. But his best buddy doesn’t hurt him. Won’t. Two-Bit’s fingertips are feather light when he traces each scar. 

Following the disfigured shape of a good lashing, Two-Bit rasps hoarsely, “I’m so sorry, kid… I wish we’d gotten to you sooner.” 

Ponyboy looks up at him. “I do too.” 

Two-Bit holds him tight, presses him into his chest. He hugs him back just as tightly, aware of what a year apart has done to them. 

“Me too,” he repeats, eyes closed. 

-

Sodapop comes home when he’s sleeping, Steve in tow. The noise of the door slamming shut, followed by a bout of cursing, wakes him. 

Beneath the blanket Two-Bit’s covered him with, his world is just a small bubble. It’s warm and his pain is the only pain he feels. 

He pokes his head out, hair ruffled and wavy. Soda spots him from across the room, laying his hand down and abandoning his poker game. 

Pony’s brother kneels beside him on the floor, brushing the hair from his eyes. Heart soothed, he blinks sleepily at him. 

Soda smiles, says, “Hey, honey. How ya’ feelin’?” 

He closes his eyes once more, enjoying the sensation of his hair being played with. “I’m okay,” he says, thinking of the coffee table and his fall. “I tripped earlier.”

“Two-Bit told me,” Sodapop frowns worriedly, checking for fever again. He assumes his pale skin must be flushed. “You’re a bit warm.” 

Ponyboy shrugs, trying to grin at him. “It’s cold in here. Blanket’s warm.” 

His older brother cocks his head. “It’s hot in here, baby. Steve’s got his shirt off. You sure you’re cold?” 

He struggles to sit up, his arms shaking at the effort. He doesn’t feel bad necessarily, and he is chilled. Ponyboy nods. “It’s cold,” he says, lifting his blanket briefly off his legs to show Sodapop that he’s wearing sweats. 

“Steve, you know where the thermometer is?” Soda asks, not looking away. 

“Bathroom?” Steve calls back. 

“Yeah,” Soda affirms. “Can you get it for me?” 

“Sure,” he says easily, leaving his spot at the table. A minute later, Sodapop’s best friend is handing him their thermometer. Ponyboy thanks God it’s not a rectal one, shivering at the thought. 

Instead of leaving, Steve leans against the door frame and studies him while they wait. When he’s satisfied the thermometer’s risen to the right temperature, Soda pulls it from his mouth, frowning again. 

“You have a fever,” Soda says, quietly. “I’m sorry you don’t feel good, honey.” 

Ponyboy pauses before reaching for his brother, entangling his fingers with Sodapop’s. “It’s okay,” he tells him. 

His older brother looks angry, which is never an emotion Pony likes to see in his features. Tight lipped, Soda looks away, clenching the thermometer in his grasp. 

“It’s not fair,” Soda says, and when he gazes at Ponyboy his chocolate eyes are melting.

“No,” Pony agrees softly. 

Steve says, “Soda, man, you’re gonna break that thermometer.” 

Releasing it, it falls onto the coffee table and rolls off the other side. Steve picks it up silently, returning to his spot in the kitchen. 

He’s grateful for the privacy. 

Soda’s face is drawn. “Baby… please talk to me. Tell me how I can help.” 

Ponyboy remembers telling his brother everything, asking him questions he knew no one else would understand. Sodapop understands everything. He’s the most genuine, open minded person Pony’s ever met, let alone gotten to love. 

Maybe it’s for those reasons he opens his mouth and spews out some of his trauma. 

The blood rushes to his face. “I-I don’t know what to say,” he swallows. “Soda, what do you want me to say?” 

“I just want you to be honest,” Sodapop breathes, hugging him. “I just want you to be happy.” 

“I don’t know if it’s possible anymore, Soda,” Pony whispers. He looks at his shaking hands, Sodapop’s arm still heavy at the back of his neck. He eyes the scar he sewed up himself and feels his brother tense. 

Grasping his hand in both of his own gently, Soda asks, narrowing his eyes, “What happened, honey?” 

“I did it,” he says, trembling, tracing the jagged, discolored skin on the fleshy part of his palm. 

“Did what?” Soda asks hesitantly, holding his breath. 

“I fixed it,” he says. 

“Sweetheart, please tell me you’re not sayin’ what I think you are,” Sodapop closes his eyes, skin bleached of color. His fingers tighten over the scar. 

“I cut my hand,” Pony tells him. “I fixed it. I sewed it back together.” 

Unhappy, Soda looks askance, his jaw set tight. Pony watches the pulse point in his neck flutter every time his heart beats. Knowing the Marshalls never took him anywhere, especially a hospital, Sodapop asks, “They have thread?” 

“Floss,” Ponyboy says softly. 

“Jesus Christ!” Soda shouts, throwing his arms up. He flinches, wondering if Sodapop’s going to yell at him or hit him, and Pony can see the exact moment where Soda realizes what he’s done wrong. His frustrated expression instantly crumples into sorrow, his eyes heart breaking when they pierce Pony's own.

He tries to remember that Soda has never, and will never hit him. 

“Oh, honey,” Sodapop cries, “I promise I’m not yellin’ at you. I just hate that bastard so much. When he wouldn’t let us see you, I knew somethin’ was wrong. I never imagined he’d been hurtin’ you all along. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Darry lost custody and when they said you'd stay with foster parents I just thought they'd be _good_.” 

Covering both of his eyes with his palms, his shoulders quiver. Choked, Soda says, “I didn't know. I was so _stupid_.” 

Heart fluttering, racing, Pony watches his world fall apart right in front of him. He can’t save himself, so he doesn’t understand why he thinks he can save Soda, but he tries. He cusps Sodapop’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. 

Pony wipes beneath his lashes, guilt-ridden at finding tears. 

His heart stops dead. If his brother can’t handle the story of him sewing his hand up, how will Soda take the rest of his trauma? 

Despite promising to be honest, Ponyboy will keep his mouth shut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a wonderful dream recently, which is what inspired me to write this story in the first place. i myself was ponyboy, and it was weird because it was definitely the hallway in my house where i found him, but two-bit was standing there. 
> 
> i had the sense that i (ponyboy) and him hadn't seen each other for a very long time. there was a sense of longing and emptiness, and then the sudden breathless joy of seeing two-bit standing there. he had a beer in one hand and when he saw pony standing at the beginning of the hall he dropped it. he waited for him to run into him, wrapping both of his arms around him. they held onto each other for a very long time, minutes and minutes passing by. the entire time i could feel just how strongly pony loved him, and vice versa. hugging two-bit felt like hugging the one person you simply cannot live without. 
> 
> knowing and having lost that feeling, i understand. my mind was probably trying to help me cope with recent trauma. but the dream was good. two-bit and ponyboy were good. 
> 
> i (pony) even hugged steve, which was also good. it was weird though because it was my parents' bedroom, haha. 
> 
> anyways, i just though i'd share.


	6. every moment points towards the aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> still sad but this is a process. not a miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhhh yep. i love y'all.

The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath his knees, but Ponyboy refuses to sit any other way. 

He can tell it confuses Darry, who’s watching him from his seat across the room. They’ve talked about it before, why he does it. Pony doesn’t really have an answer. 

Today his therapist is wearing bright blue pumps. Pony stares at her shoes, illogically hoping she won’t ask him any more questions. 

She does exactly that. “So, Ponyboy, how are you feeling today?” 

He quirks his mouth, knowing Darry hates his silence. “Fine,” he says slowly. Fidgeting, shifting his legs and placing his weight back on his feet, he adds, “Tired.” 

“Your brother Darrel tells me you had a fever recently,” Ms. Amana tells him. Her olive skin seems to glow in the light as she reaches across her desk for his ever expanding file. 

“Yes,” he says, quietly. 

“Was the cause diagnosed?” 

Darry speaks for him this time. “Pony’s doctor told us it was stress,” he explains, referencing the panicked phone call Sodapop had with his doctor one morning after Pony threw up. “We were worried his wounds were infected.” 

“And they were not,” Ms. Amana surmises. “Tell me, Ponyboy: do you feel stressed?” 

Unsure of how to respond, knowing that he is and can’t help it, he says, “Yeah... “ 

“And how do you deal with it?” 

Pony looks at his oldest brother nervously, gaze bouncing back and forth. He bites his lower lip and worries it between his teeth. “Um, I like to read a lot. I couldn’t do that before. And I still like to draw?” 

“Is that a question?” Ms. Amana asks, not unkindly. 

“I don’t know,” Ponyboy says, swallowing. “I just couldn’t do those things before. I like to be able to.” 

“You say before,” she says, tone soft. “I assume you mean with the Marshall family that fostered you?” 

There’s a long moment of silence, one where Ponyboy flounders in the dark and flails for a light switch. Thank God Darry’s always got matches. 

“His doctor said that’s the root of his stress,” Darry’s eyes are narrowed. “He said Pony needs time to figure it out.” 

“And do you believe him?” Ms. Amana asks behind her cat-eye lenses. “You don’t seem too fond of therapy, Darrel.” 

Ponyboy blinks, watching Darry fold his arms up across his chest. 

“I don’t like it,” Darry agrees. “But this is about Ponyboy. I don’t have to.” 

“In a sense, you are right,” Ms. Amana opens his file, grabbing a pen from her pencil holder. She writes but Pony doesn’t know what. “But part of Ponyboy healing is that you too, believe he can.” 

Darry’s expression is puzzled, obviously taken aback. Offended, he says, “Of course I believe Ponyboy can heal. He’s stronger than anyone I know.” 

“But you don’t think that therapy will help him?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Darry says, stiffly. “I wouldn’t have brought him here if I did. I just want to help him.” 

“I see,” Ms. Amana says. A great big pause, then: “Have you thought about putting Ponyboy on anxiety medication?” 

Pony blanches, remembering the taste of Mrs. Marshall’s drinks, of her pills that made him slur and lose his sanity. He can’t help but reach for Darry, hoping he won’t dose him, won’t dope him up like the Marshalls did. 

“Absolutely not,” Darry snaps, getting out of his chair. “Haven’t you read his file? They doped him up for over a year. He’s just now gettin’ his mind back. I won’t put him on anything.” 

Ms. Amana raises her hands, be it in protest or surrender. The vein above Darry’s left eye twitches. 

“Ponyboy, what do you think about this?” She asks.

“I-I don’t want pills,” he says, panicking. He only moves his legs from a kneeling position so that he can curl them up to his chest. Being small means he’s less visible. And being invisible has many perks. “I don’t want them. Darry, please don’t let her put me on any. I ain’t loony, I swear.” 

Darry comes to him, one of his hands on Ponyboy’s shoulder blades protectively. He pushes his face into Darry’s stomach, ashamed when he realizes he’s crying. “Never,” Darry swears. "Of course you ain't loony." 

“I don’t know what you wanted to accomplish,” Pony’s brother growls, “But this wasn’t it. The hour’s up and I’m takin’ him home.” 

A small fragment of Pony wonders if he’s being unreasonable, if he should take the pills to make himself better. But then he remembers the numbness of the other pills, how they dulled his mind and made his tongue loose. 

He doesn’t ever want to experience that again. 

Too upset to walk, Pony finds his legs are Jello and nearly falls right to the floor. But Darry’s got him; he’s always got him these days.  Darry carries him to the receptionist desk, setting him down in one of the pale yellow, miserable chairs hospitals always seem to have. When he’s done checking him out, Darry carries him out to the truck.

He buckles Ponyboy up because he’s too weak to do it himself. Blinded by tears, much of what he sees is blurred and malformed. Darry stares at him from the corner of his eye, and half-way on their way home, he finally speaks. 

“Pone, I won’t make you go back to her. I can get you a new therapist.” 

Darry sounds worried, hoping he’ll speak his mind. But Ponyboy’s used to hiding his opinion… and he’s very, very good at lying because of it. He's afraid of upsetting him, because he never knows what will happen. 

“Damn it, Ponyboy!” Darry’s fists hit the steering wheel, honking the horn inadvertently. “ _ Please _ , baby, just talk to me!” 

“No!” Pony says, jumping in his seat. Quickly, realizing he sounded defiant, he adds, “I’ll see her, Dar. It’s okay.” 

“Are you sure?” Darry asks him, glancing over at him, his eyes a brewing thunderstorm. “Tell me the truth, Pone. Do you want to see someone else?” 

“No,” Pony says, wondering if it’s a lie.

-

“How was therapy?” Soda asks, grinning at him from the couch when he and Darry enter. Immediately, noticing the tension, he sobers, asking, “Oh, no, what happened?” 

Darry’s broad shoulders are tensed, hunched as he stomps across the living room. He mumbles something that sounds a lot like “bitch” and slams the bathroom door shut behind him.

“What’s wrong?” Sodapop asks him, concern written in every feature. Ponyboy kneels on the couch beside him, tucking his head into the crook of his brother’s neck. 

“She wanted to put me on pills,” Pony tells him slowly. 

Soda’s tenses. “What kind of pills?” 

“Anxiety ones,” Ponyboy closes his eyes, hoping that’ll be the end of the conversation. He’s tired, mentally and physically exhausted, so he lowers his head until it’s laying in Soda’s lap. Cheek pressed against a warm thigh, he says, “Soda?” 

Worriedly, Sodapop says, “Yeah, honey?” 

“I don’t feel good,” Pony says. He can feel Soda’s fingers combing his hair now, which his brother knows he loves. It’s like giving Darry backrubs - Sodapop can put anyone to sleep. 

“I know, baby,” Sodapop says, voice tight and lowered. There’s a ruffling sound, then a warm blanket rumpled up over his thin frame. “Just rest, Pony. I’m here.” 

In a moment of awe-striking clarity, Ponyboy says, “You never left.” 

-

He comes to later, and Darry’s joined them. The television’s on, a Clint Eastwood movie, but nobody seems to be watching it. The white light flickers up over his skin, into his glossy eyes. 

Pony says sleepily, “Dar?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here.” 

“Oh,” he says, relieved. “Good.” 

“How are you feelin’?” One of them asks.

But Ponyboy’s already gone. 

-

“Kid’s still asleep?” Someone yawns. 

The morning sounds of his house growing lively wakes him. Thinking hard, Pony thinks it might be Steve who said it. 

“Yeah,” Sodapop says softly, still stroking his head. “Been asleep since 6 yesterday. Darry said he needs it.” 

“Kid’s skinny,” Steve observes. Pushing his face further into Soda’s lap, Ponyboy tries to hide. 

“Yeah,” Soda repeats. “He still don’t eat much. I don’t know what to do.” 

“Could always force feed him,” Steve says, with an odd note of humor in his tone. “Get him nice and drunk and make him his favorite meal.” 

For once, Sodapop actually laughs. The sound of it is golden and leaves Pony starving, yearning for more. 

He wishes he could make Soda happy. 

“Darry’d kill me,” Soda murmurs. “Besides, I’ve got a year of mother-hennin’ to make up for.” 

“You’ll smother him,” Steve scoffs, and Pony can hear the smirk in his voice when he says it. 

The world is fuzzier now, fainter than before. He hears bits and pieces and doesn’t fight to understand. 

“...he sure is young lookin’, ain’t he?” 

“...said he lost 40 lbs…”

“...fatten him up, he needs it…”

“...just want to help him…” 

“...hell, Soda, wish I knew…” 

“...love him. So much…” 

Pony slips away, wondering if his brother really means it.

-

He questions everything. Darry and Sodapop want him to eat, he wonders if his weight disgusts them. Two-Bit wants to take him out and Ponyboy wonders why. Steve’s nice to him and he wants to know what he owes him.

He doesn’t mean to question it all. Reality just seems very conflicting and confusing at the moment. 

It occurs to him one early morning that Pony has a phone number. The phone number of a boy older than him who’s always brutally honest, even if it hurts. A boy who won't lie. 

Picking up the phone at 5:00 a.m., Ponyboy calls one Jim Edwards. 

-

“‘Lo?” A voice on the other end of the receiver asks. 

Pony holds his breath, wondering if Jim’s even here at all. He said he’d be fine if he got drafted, and he panics thinking that he has. 

“Hi,” he says lamely. “I… is Jim Edwards there?” 

“Kid,” the other man says, words slow and drawn out from sleep. “It’s like 3:00 in the morning. What do you want?” 

“Is Jim Edwards there?” He repeats, his hope dwindling. He adds shakily, “He was in foster care with me.” 

“I’m sorry, kid. Jimmy ain’t here right now."

“Did… did he get drafted?” Pony whispers. 

“Glory, no. Thank fuck. He’s just kinda out there explorin’ or some shit. He called it somethin’ dumb, like a self-revelation or somethin’. I’ll never understand that guy.” 

“Oh,” Pony echoes. He feels like he’s being crushed, like every hope he held onto came down to this. It’s gone now too. A hole punched through him, he’s going to hang up when the man speaks again. "Thanks for tellin' me." 

“Hey, kid, the least I can do is get him to call when he comes back. Lemme write down your number.”

He gives it to him, moving through the motions without feeling. Numb, Pony hangs up the phone and slides down the wall and onto the floor. 

Feeling stupid and hopeless, he cries.  Cries until morning, the yellow light of dawn cutting through the curtains. Sodapop finds him all curled up by the phone, fingers tangled in the cord. 

Barely conscious, his voice hoarse, his skin tight, Ponyboy looks up at his brother blearily. Soda says something to him that he can’t understand, like he’s speaking through a pillow. 

Voice muffled, Soda repeats it. “Honey, why are you out here?” 

“I tried to call Jim,” he says, choked. “He’s not there.” 

Understanding dawns in his brother. Lowering himself down beside Pony, Sodapop gathers him up and cradles him to his chest. He’s warm and Ponyboy’s still so cold.  Soda’s his own personal star. Telling his brother this earns him a light chuckle and a tighter hug. Pony fits so easily into his lap, and Sodapop doesn’t let him go. 

Half of his face pushed into Sodapop’s shoulder, he thinks. Thinks about his life and it’s worth again, because the idea of not being wanted haunts him. He just wants to be good. 

Every time he takes a step forward it feels like two sets of hands are dragging him back into the deep. The abyss swallows him whole, no matter how golden Soda’s light is. 

Eyes closed, he enjoys the sensation of Sodapop’s chin on the top of his head. Holds onto the sound of his voice and the feel of his throat working, how the words come from within. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” Soda murmurs. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I just want to be good,” Pony says, breath hitching like he’s going to cry. “I tried so hard, Soda.” 

Soda sounds so terribly sad when he speaks, his arms trembling around him, holding him ever closer. “You  _ are _ good, Ponyboy. More good than anyone I know.” 

“How do you know?” Pony asks him desperately. “How do you know that?” 

“I’m your brother, Ponyboy,” Sodapop says, all knowingly. “I would never lie to you. I promise you’re good. So very good.” 

Wishing feverishly that it’s true, he’s silent. And when Darry wakes up and comes out of his room just to see him all piled up in Sodapop’s lap, Pony still wants to believe. 

He doesn’t know how to get better. He doesn’t know if it’s even possible anymore. 

He’s promised it is.

-

Two-Bit takes him to his first movie now that he’s back. It’s late and he carries his switch and the Swiss Army knife he’s been given. Just the two of them, Pony walks close to his best buddy’s side and ignores the stares of people on the street. 

They sneak in the old way, sneaking under the hole in the fence. He shivers one in the breeze despite his sweatshirt and Two-Bit’s putting his leather jacket on him in a heartbeat, dusting it off where he’d dirtied it crawling in the dust. 

He tries to refuse, but his friend won’t have it. 

“Can’t take a Pony-cicle back to his brothers, now can I?” Two-Bit teases, paying for their movie. They sit where they always do, right in the back where they pretend it’s safer than the front row. 

Ponyboy thinks that socs will jump a greaser no matter where he may sit. 

The movie’s fine, a cheesy one he’s already seen. Something about the beach and flirty young women trying to swoon men. Ponyboy’s fine with rewatching a flick, because at least he has the freedom to. He and Two-Bit joke around the entire time, clowning it up, pretending things are normal. For a while, Ponyboy believes it could be. 

And then there’s a hand on his thigh, a tight grip on his knee. Without even looking, Pony flicks his switchblade out and brandishes it. He feels Two-Bit’s eyes on him, watching, waiting to see what he’ll do. Hears the click of his switch flicking open as well. 

The jugular of the boy the knife rests against jumps in surprise. The soc staring down at him, large hand still clenched his thigh, doesn’t move. 

Remembering a long time ago, a day where socs had cut up his throat and bled him dry like a stuck pig, Ponyboy draws blood. 

Smirking, the soc says, fingers dancing closer to Pony's hip, “I heard you were gone for a long time. Missed you in school.”

“Get the hell outta here,” Two-Bit snarls. “You want a haircut? How about I get rid of that 12 year old neck beard you got goin’ on there?” 

He watches him swallow, and blanch. 

“Leave me alone,” Ponyboy warns him. Something in him snaps, leaving him cold and empty and broken. It must reflect in his voice, because when he opens his mouth, the soc is backing away. 

Hands up, the guy says, “Shit! I’m sorry, okay?” 

“Get the fuck away from me,” Pony says. Slow, low, and quiet. 

Two-Bit’s staring at him, pale faced as they watch the soc retreat with his tail tucked between his legs. Putting his hands over his face, Two-Bit’s voice is muffled when he speaks. 

“This is just like that beer bottle,” he groans. “Tell me you’re gonna pick up the glass like before? So no one gets a flat tire or loses an artery?” 

Pony shakes his head, swallows against the rising panic returning just to slosh about in his insides. He grips his belly with one hand and then stands unsteadily, clenching his eyes shut. 

He can’t tell if he’s going to cry or throw up. Ponyboy staggers towards the exit and chooses to cry. Following him, his best buddy’s obviously concerned. 

“Shit, Pone, you really were gonna hurt him,” he swears. “What happened? I wasn’t lookin’ when he wandered over.” 

“He touched me,” Ponyboy says simply, hollowly. 

He can see it in Two-Bit’s eyes when he realizes what Pony means. The fear of watching Ponyboy turn on some random soc is replaced, evolving into fury. 

“He fuckin’ touched you?” Two-Bit hollers. “Kid, I woulda sliced and diced him if I knew that happened!” 

He shrugs, climbs over the fence instead of under it. Landing on the other side, he waits for his buddy so they can walk home. “I handled it,” he says, and spooks himself. 

“Don’t get all tough,” Two-Bit says a little pleadingly. “Pony, don’t turn into Dally.” 

He pauses midstep, slowly turning to face him. He blinks, understanding trickling in as he listens. 

With all that he’s seen and experienced, Ponyboy knows he could turn into Dallas Winston very easily. But he thinks about Sodapop, who cried and never wanted them to turn into Dally, not because he died but because of who he was before. And he thinks of Johnny, sweet, anxious Johnny who was the gang’s pet and everyone’s favorite. 

Being second best isn’t new to him. Being unwelcome in a place isn't either. Ponyboy’s very aware he’s just the tag-along younger brother in everyone’s eyes, and that’s fine. It’s better than being a mindless, unknowing slave, a dog at the foot of its masters. 

“I won’t,” Pony tells him, hoping he means it. 

-

“I’ve never seen him so angry,” Two-Bit says, voice throating through the walls. From his place in his bed, Pony listens and wishes he were deaf. “Darry, he really scared me.” 

Silence, then a very upset sounding Darry. “He got touched?” 

“Guy had him by the thigh, I think,” Two-Bit’s voice is lower now, harder to distinguish from the noises of their aging house. “He just - _poof_ \- had the knife on him real quick. Soc didn’t even see it comin’. Hell,  _ I _ didn’t.” 

“I’ll see if I can figure out what’s bothering him,” Darry promises. "Thanks for tellin' me, Two-Bit." 

Knowing Soda’s sleeping beside him, knowing Steve’s conked out on the couch, Ponyboy has nowhere to vent his frustration. If he clambers out of bed and goes to the bathroom, Darry will find him and corner him and beg to know what happened. 

Ponyboy's not even sure if he's processed what happened. Telling Darry know, his words all jumbled up and senseless, would only cause trouble. 

Besides, he’s not in the mood to speak. He wants to be unresponsive, a vegetable in a hospital bed. He’s seen movies, knows what trauma can do to a person. And he's faced a lot of trauma, from his parents dying, to Darry gaining and losing custody and then getting it back, to Johnny and Dallas dying. The Marshalls were just the cherry on top of a great big pile of shit. If Hell truly exists, then they were proof of it. 

But Ponyboy also wants to be free. He wants to be good. He wants to be happy again, for things to go back to normal even though he knows it’s not possible. He remembers being told not to waste energy on pointless things, things that will never happen. On people who will never find him. He remembers thinking it was good advice. 

Ponyboy thinks that maybe all that he has left is what he wants. 


	7. sailors struggle back from their nights out on the town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ehhh i wasn't completely satisfied with this. like all the chapters i'm sure i'll be changing it.

He dreams of Johnny. 

Not terrified, cowering, kicked puppy Johnny. 

No, Johnny-cakes. Johnny. Jonathan Cade. 

In Pony’s dream, his old friend is happy and healthy, skin absent of dreadful wounds. The burns are missing. The scar on his face caused from Bob’s rings is now just a faint memory. 

And boy, does he look happy. In his dream, Ponyboy isn’t jealous of his happiness. He’s awe-struck, his breath stolen from his lungs, watching his buddy exist without his intrinsic sadness. 

He’s always been ethereal. But Johnny’s without pain, without sorrow, without grief. His father is not here to beat him. His mother is not here to lash him with her inebriated tongue. There are no socs to chase him in this inherent sunlight. 

Under the golden sun, no one can touch him.

Ponyboy wakes up, crying out of relief. 

When Sodapop asks him if he had a nightmare, Pony will shake his head and tell him, that for the first time in over a year, that he did not.

-

“You seemed very upset last time you were here,” Ms. Amana observes. 

Without Darry, it’s Sodapop who joins him this session. Biting his thumb nail, Pony says nervously, “You asked a lot of questions.” 

She seems to contemplate this, tossing and turning the idea around in her hands. “I just want to help you heal, Ponyboy.” 

He ignores Sodapop’s grunt. 

“I never could talk there,” Pony says, slowly, meaning at the Marshalls’ house. “And I still don’t always know if it’s safe to. But you didn’t give me a chance to before.” 

Ms. Amana is silent. Ponyboy wonders if he has said all of the wrong things. Apprehensive for a bad outcome, he clings to Soda’s bicep. 

“You’re right,” she nods. She puts his file down and stops writing, laying her pen down across its many pages. “I’m sorry for that, Ponyboy. Is there something specific you’d like to talk about?” 

He hasn’t thought that far ahead yet. He didn’t think it’d even work. Ponyboy shakes his head, biting his cheek. “No,” he mumbles, flushing. “‘M sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” Ms. Amana tells him, smiling for the first time. “It’s good to speak up for yourself. I’m glad you told me.”

Sodapop looks at him proudly, beaming, chocolate eyes aglow. Pony smiles into his shoulder, awash with adoration for him. He’s never loved anyone like he does Soda.

“My kid brother’s pretty great,” Soda grins.

-

It occurs to Ponyboy one night to ask the question. The big and terrible question. The same one that can make or break everything. He finds Sodapop in the kitchen washing dishes after dinner, and pauses in the doorway.

Pony thinks. He knows Soda and Darry won’t hurt him. He knows it in his bones, and yet… there is always doubt. He doesn’t know that they won’t. Even if he didn’t mean to, Darry hit him before. And this question is the very worst to test his theory. 

Soda sees him before he can chicken out. 

“Hey, honey,” Sodapop smiles at him, his arms up to the elbow glistening with soapy water. Pony shuts his eyes, trying to imagine a world where he doesn’t say anything at all. 

Mouth moving before he can make that world reality, Pony says, dread in his heart, “What did Doctor Stage tell you?” 

“About what, sweetheart?”

He can tell his brother is actually confused. Caught off guard, Ponyboy watches Soda turn the faucet off and dry his hands with the dish towel. 

He’s not done yet. Pony hears the gurgle of a plate slipping beneath the surface. Part of him wants to submerge himself right alongside it. 

“Pony?” Soda asks, concern written in his features. 

He blinks at him. “What did Doctor Stage tell you?” 

“Honey, about what? When you were in the hospital?”

Ponyboy doesn’t know why he’s frustrated, but he is. He covers his eyes with his hands. “ _Yes_! What do you know?”

Sodapop’s palm is warm, even though his sweatshirt. He flinches away, taking several steps backwards. In the doorway, Pony’s back meets Darry’s broad chest. 

He jumps a foot in the air, hand covering his heart. Pony tries to breathe deeply. 

“I only know a few things,” Sodapop soothes, studying him, scrutinizing his behavior. Darry steps around him, not wanting to corner him. 

An exit has never looked more available. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Darry’s brow furrows, his arms crossing over his chest. “Pepsi-Cola?” 

Ponyboy’s heart thunders in his rib cage. There’s not enough air and the absence of it makes his head spin, but he can’t leave. Running away is wrong. Disobeying is wrong. Every time he inhales Mr. Marshall’s voice haunts him. 

“Pony?” Darry repeats. 

Sodapop looks sad suddenly, his big chocolate eyes devastated. Realization dawns on him, and Pony. His hands fall to his sides, even though Pony knows he wants to run to him. 

“Pony, honey, they had to cut off your shirt after you got hurt,” Soda says softly. “I saw the scars, Dar too. Doc Stage explained them.” 

He crumples to his knees, a sob rising in his throat. _They know they know they know_ , he thinks, heartbeat fluttering. _Everyone knows._

His brothers kneel beside him, hesitantly reaching for him with gentle hands. Soda brushes his hair out of his eyes so sweetly, like taming a wild stallion. He thinks of Mickey and cries. 

Soda loved that horse. And Soda loved - Pony thinks he loves him still - him. “Honey,” his brother says, “I’m so sorry he hurt you. But your scars don’t bother us none.” 

“Not at all,” Darry affirms. “I promise, baby. We’re not mad at you. Just at him and his wife.” 

He wishes he would leave it at that. Pony wishes he would use his head like Darry tells him to and let them stay oblivious. “But you don’t _know_ ,” he wails, fingers digging into his eyes. “You don’t know.” 

“Then tell us,” Darry urges him. “What happened, baby?” 

“You’ll hate me,” he mewls. “You won’t love me anymore.” 

Darry’s big hands pull his own away from his teary eyes. Forcing Pony to look at him, Sodapop’s forefinger and thumb guide his chin his direction. 

“Nothing could stop me from lovin you, kiddo,” Sodapop’s choked. “I mean that. No matter what happens, Darry and I will always love you.” 

“You’re stuck with us,” Darry agrees emotionally, rubbing his shoulder blades. “Pepsi-Cola’s right, Little Colt. You’re ours.” 

“Promise you won’t be mad at me,” he pleads. 

“Never,” Soda says fervently. 

“What happened, baby?” Darry repeats, eyes so very blue. Like the ocean of tears inside of Ponyboy.

“He… he touched me,” Ponyboy whimpers. “He… he used to sleep in my bed, and he would… he-” 

The silence consumes him. It stretches on, slowly deafening him, rising up over his mouth and nose. He wishes he never said anything. He wishes he could take it back. 

Pony’s useless and pathetic and he knows his brothers are silent because they know this. He thinks he might throw up, sickness washing into his mouth. This horrible, dreadful thought rips him apart. 

And then two pairs of arms are wrapping around him, squeezing him too compactly. Soda’s whispering in his ear even though Ponyboy has no idea what he’s saying, and Darry’s eyes meet his burning own, reaching right into his soul. 

Sound returns as a supernova, winding him. Ponyboy can hear his brothers and the sounds of their aging house again, the whistling of a furnace kicking into gear, the sound of the floorboards settling. 

“Oh, baby,” Soda’s weeping, rocking Pony against his chest. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Darry’s mask hardens, his hands shaking in his lap. White mouthed, he says, “I would kill for you, Pony. He’s goddamn lucky he’s dead.” 

“Baby, I’m so sorry you thought you couldn’t tell us,” Soda whispers, kissing his forehead, his eyes and his nose. “I’m so sorry, Pone.” 

“I-I didn’t know what to do,” Pony says. A tear rolls down his cheek and rests above his lip. “I fought back, but it wasn’t enough.” 

Darry holds him against his chest, his voice husky and his shoulders quivering. “It got you back to us,” he rasps. “It was enough. It’s more than enough.” 

-

Ponyboy finds his face in the mirror. For the first time since he’s been home, he stares at his reflection and really studies himself. 

He still looks gaunt, his eyes deep in their sockets. His cheeks are hollow, his skin ghost white. He looks tired, his shoulders hunched. Lifting his shirt, he runs his fingers down his ladder rung ribs and swallows. 

Pony focuses in on his face, absently tracing the wound above his eye. Doctor Stage said his wound would scar him and he was right: it’s an ugly thing, pale pink and arcing across his brow and temple. The line where the bullet stole a narrow line of his hair. The slight divot where it clipped his skull. 

Ponyboy maps it out with his eyes closed, remember his mortality. Remembers how badly it had hurt to live with monsters. Knows he lives with demons but he’s working on fighting those. 

When he wanders in and out of his head, his brothers always have his back. If Pony’s lost in the dark, they have more than enough light to guide him home. 

He still subsists on meager amounts of food, although he always tries to eat more to appease his brothers. Every extra bite Pony chokes down is another victory in their eyes. He wants to believe in miracles. 

They tell him he is one.

-

Somehow, Ponyboy’s brothers afford taking him out. They get burgers at Dottie’s Diner and Ponyboy sits on his side of the booth with Sodapop wriggling beside him. 

Closest to the wall, each and every time Soda bounces, he does too. At one point he laughs because Sodapop makes him miss putting his straw in his glass. 

Darry watches them with barely restrained amusement, his green-blue eyes aglow. Recognizing Pony’s nervousness before he himself does, Darry begins to talk about his day. 

“Greg fell off the roof and broke his leg,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Hell of a lot of paperwork.” 

Pony recalls Darry’s promotion to Head of Construction and his slacker coworker at the same time. Smiling, he says, “Do they call you boss?” 

“Maybe,” Darry says slyly, squinting. 

“What about the girls?” He teases. 

Before Darry can answer, Sodapop swoons, imitating one of the many girls that stop by the DX. Hands clasped together over his heart and lashes fluttering, he cries, “Oh, Darrel! How dreamy your sweat stains are!” 

Ponyboy chokes on his drink, laughing when it spews out of his nose. Red faced, he’s still giggling when Sodapop gets cuffed around the head. 

Darry’s blushing. “Watch it, buster.” 

Mopping up some of his Pepsi with three bunched up napkins, Pony says, “I mean… Dar, they don’t smell you when you come home.” 

Soda guffaws, surprised by his moxy. Turning his DX cap around on his head, the bill backwards, Pony’s brother unwravells his silverware and brandishes the butter knife like a sword. 

“I’ll protect you Pone!” He promises gallantly. 

Darry rolls his eyes again, finishing the last of his burger. “Soda, put the knife down. And fix your hat!” 

“Do you mean my sword and my helmet?” Sodapop asks with a royal flare, accent and all. “Never! This is my ward!” 

Unable to help himself, Darry hides his grin behind his hands. Voice muffled, he says, “Pepsi-Cola, I outta whip you. You already made Pony spill his drink.” 

Paling at the word “whip”, he raises one finger and says weakly, “Technically it was from my nose and not very much.” 

Sodapop sticks his tongue out, even though he and Darry are both looking at him funny. “See, Dar? My ward knows what’s up.” 

“Soda, if we’re being realistic, Ponyboy is my ward and you know it.” 

Mock surprised, Sodapop’s mouth gapes like a fish. His gaze darts between Pony and Darry lightning quick, his eyes betraying his not so secret glee. 

“You’re just jealous I’m a knight,” he huffs, turning his nose up. 

Darry scoffs pleasantly, “Yeah, that’s it.” 

Smiling, Pony says quietly, “if you’re a knight just to protect me, then I must be a king.” 

“Hell yeah you are,” Sodapop beams, hooking an arm around his shoulders. Darry reaches across to the table to rough up his hair, expression fond. 

“I pledge mine loyalty,” Darry grins, succumbing. 

-

He, Two-Bit, and Steve are lounging in their living room, picking at the remains of their cake. 

“I can’t believe we ate it all,” Two-Bit says mourningly. 

“In an hour,” Steve frowns. “We literally baked a cake and ate the whole thing in an hour.” 

Ponyboy tries not to hurl it all back up. Shifting, he lets out a groan, stomach churning. It hurts but part of him feels strangely accomplished, finally doing something on his own.

Even if it was something as stupid as eating an entire cake with two buddies, Pony still did something on his own - without permission. 

He sighs almost happily. There’s a faint grin on his face and he’s relieved to be capable of one. “We’re the worst,” he says, covering his face with his hands. 

“We suck,” Two-Bit agrees. Flopping backwards on the floor, his shirt rides up above the waistband of his ripped jeans. Steve sniffs at him in disgust. 

“We should probably make another one for Darry and Soda,” Pony says. 

None of them move. Weakly kicking out one of his legs, stuffed and cramping, Pony’s socked foot nudges Two-Bit’s flank. 

“You ate the most,” Pony says, grinning for real now. “You have to make it.” 

“Kid, we all know I’d burn the house down.” 

Steve nods once, verdant eyes rolling. “He’s right, Ponyboy. Guess we gotta whip that shit up again.” 

Pony groans again. “Oh, no.” 

“Oh, yes,” Two-Bit says deviously. 

-

Ponyboy doesn’t remember having a birthday, but Sodapop bakes him a cake with too much sugar. Instead of the usual chocolate color and flavor, the batter’s bright blue. 

Darry’s trying to help him bake it, which Ponyboy always finds endearing. No matter how many times he sees them whip one up, picturing huge, muscular Darry fiddle with tiny teaspoons and cups of flour never fails to make him laugh. 

Just the three of them, Pony’s brothers make him blow out sixteen candles. Sodapop’s wearing a fluffy birthday hat and blowing two party horns in his mouth at once. Darry, grinning behind his hand, dons one too.

Ponyboy tries not to flush when Soda places the king’s crown atop his head. Ruffling his hair up first, his brother sets it crooked. Then stepping back with his fingers imitating a snapshot, Sodapop gives him the seal of approval. 

He’s dozing on the couch, content and full of Soda’s too sweet cake, when Two-Bit and Steve show up. Two-Bit sits down beside him, lifting Pony’s legs to sit beneath them.

His feet are warmer against Two-Bit’s thigh. He clutches the blanket around his body tighter, feels Two-Bit’s arm rest against his calves. 

Steve says to Soda, “He still asleep?” 

“In and out,” his brother says. There’s a smile in his voice. “We celebrated his birthday today. You want some cake?” 

“Sure,” Steve says. “Hey, man, is… is he doin’ alright?” 

Ponyboy’s touched, he is. Hearing Sodapop’s best friend ask about him, especially now that he doesn’t pretend to hate him anymore, warms him more than any blanket ever could. 

Sodapop claps him on the back, the sound of silverware cluttering against a plate. He says, “I think so. He seemed better this morning.”

He supposes it might be true, he thinks. Ponyboy does feel a bit better, especially since he’s finding his own feet again. It’s easier to stand up, because Darry and Sodapop always have him under the arms in case he falls. 

He stretches, lets out a large sigh. He digs his way out of his blanket. “Hey, Two-Bit,” he yawns. “You want any cake?” 

His friend shakes his head, grinning from sideburn to sideburn. “Nah, kid. Thanks, though.” Pausing, his gaze back on the TV screen, he says, “You’re 16. Shit, Pony. You’re old.” 

“You’re 20,” Ponyboy tells him, smiling. “You’re the old one.” 

“Touche,” Two-Bit squints. Sobering, he says, quieter, touching Ponyboy’s shin, “I’m real proud of you, kid.” 

Ponyboy opens his mouth to reply but there’s a hauntingly familiar sound that stops him. He stares, waits for it to reveal itself, and Darry steps into the room with his belt in his hand and his eyes narrowed. 

In his head, Ponyboy knows Darry would never hurt him. The night before Windrixville still echoes in both of their thoughts. But his body is illogical and stupid and Pony’s up and off of the couch in a second, startling Two-Bit. 

“Wha- Pony!” 

Darry asks, “What’s wrong?” 

He doesn’t know why he does it but he scrambles for purchase on the floor and takes off running, straight out the front door. He’s weak and tired so he makes it to the top step before tripping.

Ponyboy turns himself around mid-air to land on his back and not his knees and stomach, but he still bites pavement. The back of his head hits the stone walkway and he sees stars, bites his tongue and tastes pennies. 

The front door creaks open, and then slams shut, adding to his newfound headache. Then there are sneakers on the cement, coming towards him, and before he realizes he’s done it he bends his knees and covers his face with his hands. 

“Jesus Christ,” Two-Bit swears, kneeling by his side. “Fuck, kid. You’re okay. You’re alright.” 

Sodapop tears up grass trying to get to him. Passes Steve and looks heartbroken when he sees Pony. 

He hopes he doesn’t look as pathetic as he feels. 

“Oh, honey,” Soda murmurs, grasping his wrists and lowering his hands. He sniffs, hopes that there are no tears. “Darry ain’t gonna hit you.” 

“I know,” he says miserably. “I know.” 

Two-Bit’s hand at his spine, helping him sit up, makes him flinch despite his intent. Pony stares at him with watery eyes, hoping that he knows. 

Sodapop kisses his brow, frowning when he pulls back. “You’re a little warm.” 

Pony touches the back of his head tenderly, his hair matted and clumped. When he says nothing and makes no noise of pain, Soda blinks at him. Grabbing Pony’s palm, he sees the smeared blood and twists him around gently. 

Panicked, Sodapop tells Two-Bit, “Tell Darry to get the First-Aid kit. Can you get a washcloth and a bowl of warm water?” 

Ponyboy worries his lip. His head stings but he didn’t think it was serious enough for his brother to seem nervous. He faces Soda, burying his face in his chest. He holds him close, slightly rocking them. 

“What’s wrong?” Pony asks. “Is it bad?” 

“No,” Soda says gently. “But it is bleeding and I need to clean it.” 

“Oh,” he says lamely. 

“Can you walk?” 

“I think so,” Ponyboy looks at his bare feet, at his knees where his jeans have torn. He stands and takes two steps before crumpling. His head spins, and he clenches his eyes shut, jaw tight. Tries to get up again. 

“Don’t get up,” Soda says softly. “I’ve got you.” 

Sodapop gets one arm under his knees and the other curled around his back. Making it up the front porch steps, Pony thinks about how his brother struggled before, not because he was heavy but because he’s growing tall. 

Soda doesn’t struggle now. 

He sets Ponyboy down on the couch where he sat earlier and when he looks for Darry he finds him in the kitchen. He rubs his arm, wringing his hands. 

His brothers don’t like when he does it because he’s susceptible to hurting himself, squeezing too hard, digging his nails in. 

Soda smacks his hands away, following his gaze. His eyes soften. “He ain’t mad at you, honey.” 

“I’m sorry,” Pony swallows. Two-Bit comes out of the back of the house and sits down on his other side, rubbing his shoulder. Grins at Pony wanly, warily. 

“You look tough,” his friend tells him. “Tougher than Mickey.” 

It makes Pony smile, at least for a heartbeat. Then Darry’s entering the room and slowly walking towards him and his guilt swamps him. 

Two-Bit vacates his spot, saluting to Darry when he passes. Darry takes it, nodding his thanks, setting the bowl of warm water on the coffee table. 

Ponyboy can’t look at him. Bursts out, “I’m so sorry, Darry. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh, baby,” Darry sighs. “There’s no need to be. I’m sorry I scared you. I promise I won’t hurt you.” 

Throat tight, Pony pushes his face into Darry’s chest, some of the tension of his body washing away when Darry embraces him. It solidifies his truth. 

“I know,” Pony whispers.


	8. hopeless urchins from the city gather around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which some things begin to brighten for pony. he finds laughter. he's still afraid but change is on the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your continued support, ponyboymichaelcurtis!!! ily so much!! <3

Ponyboy spends much of his time thinking. He remembers how the mailman saw him through the window and might have been his saving grace. He recalls the upstairs he was never allowed to touch.

He sees Jesse in his head. Thinks of Jim and how he’d gone away because it was anywhere but here. Pony’s back pockets are heavy with his buddies’ gifts: Steve’s pocket knife and Two-Bit’s shiny, pearl switch. 

The power is relieving because it means control. Control over himself and his situation. He’ll never be without them. He’ll never be the same breed of powerless as he was when he lived with the Marshalls. 

Mainly Ponyboy has questions. Is he getting better? Is it even possible for him to get better? Most of all, does he want to get better? 

He does. 

One night he dreams he is sitting on a bench beneath an amber sky. Beside him, Dallas Winston, wrapped up tight in his no longer burnt as it was when he’d worn it last. 

Never looking away from the scene before them, Dallas says, “You got tough, like me.” 

“I had to,” Ponyboy explains quietly. “Get tough, and no one can hurt you.”

“You still got hurt, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” he says slowly, studying the hard lines of Dally’s profile. The sky is cloudless behind him, and no longer golden. He thinks of Johnny, and pales.

“We all get hurt in the end,” Dallas Winston tells him, and when he turns, the other half of his face is burnt. Eye socket hollow, a swell of endless black smoke billowing up. 

Above them, a black tidal wave, encroaching the land, trapping them in the gloom. At the dying of the light, Pony reaches for his friend, and finds only empty air. 

-

Sodapop swings him up into a hug the following morning. Tense and half-awake, Pony stiffens before he embraces him back. 

“What’s the occasion?” He giggles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 

“Just like you,” Sodapop grins. “Want some breakfast? Darry made _pancakes_.” 

“I absolutely want pancakes,” Ponyboy tells him. Pauses half in the doorway, hand lingering on the frame. “Um, but first I gotta go to the bathroom.” 

“I’ll tell Darry his majesty needs his privacy,” Sodapop salutes him. “But I don’t know if there will be pancakes left when you return from afar.” 

“Better be,” Pony mumbles, smiling despite himself. In the bathroom he finds his expression haunting the mirror. No wonder Soda hugged him; he looks miserable. 

The smile drops. Tracing the scar at his temple, he remembers Dally’s ashen skin, flesh melted away from the skull. Fingers digging into his own scalp, Ponyboy tries to forget the ghastly image. 

Dallas Winston is fine, but dead. Not gone, because that implies that everyone - even Pony - has forgotten him. And just like him, Johnny’s the same. 

He finds his way to the kitchen, and despite what Sodapop threatened, there’s plenty of pancakes. It’s hard to ignore that everyone’s walking on eggshells around him, too scared to provoke a repressed memory. 

Pony sips his chocolate milk. Wishes that pancakes sounded as good as they did ten minutes ago. “Dar?” He says quietly. 

“Yeah, kiddo?” Darry doesn’t look up. Absently, he flips over one of his over-easy eggs. Usually he eats them hard-boiled. 

Pony looks at the clock, hovering at the edge of his seat. Soda’s watching him strangely, counting the two, fifteen second bites he takes of his toast. “Are you gonna be late?” 

“For work?” Darry actually eyes him this time, grimacing. “Those are some bags, kiddo. You sleep alright?” 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“Sodapop, after your shift, can you come home and take him to his doctor’s appointment?” 

“Aye, Captain,” Soda salutes at the same time Pony says, “What appointment?”

“Your doc wanted to check up on your head and stomach. Just be good, alright?” Darry points the spatula at him, turning off the stove top. “Don’t be ornery like this one.”

Sodapop’s eyebrows rise. He gasps, “Ornery? Me? Not me, good sir, not me.” 

Darry scarfs down his eggs, hardly pausing to breathe, and Pony knows he lied about being late. He tracks his older brother across the room, watching him toe on his boots, lift his tool-belt from it’s usual heap. 

Pony ditches his plate, sliding it towards Sodapop. “Dar?” He asks hesitantly. Today already feels stained, like the Marshalls’ already have their hooks in his ribs again. 

He sees Dallas’ burned face, his hollow eye socket. Gnashing teeth when he laughed at Pony. 

He blinks and Darry’s standing in front of him, looking worried, hunching over to peer straight directly into his eyes. A hand on his shoulder. 

“Kiddo? You with me?” 

Ponyboy shakes himself, rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry, Dar… Um, I don’t remember what I wanted to tell you.” 

“You think of it, you call me,” Darry instructs. “Or tell Sodapop, okay?” 

“Okay,” he echoes distantly. “Dar, you are gonna come home, right?” 

The quiet is stuffy now, but Pony stands, weathered. A voice in the back of his head niggles about. His scars itch, crash and burn. 

“Of course,” Darry says, eyes narrowed. A kiss to Pony’s forehead, avoiding the tissue damage, and he’s back at the door, raring to go. “I’ll always come home, little colt.” 

The relief shouldn’t make him feel this way, but Pony’s steps are lighter after his oldest brother’s promise. In the kitchen, he finds Sodapop starting on the dishes, licking a long stripe across the spatula from breakfast. 

Cornered against the sink, holding a spatula in one hand and a sponge in the other, Soda’s a deer in headlights. Sheepishly, he slowly lowers both back into the foamy water. 

Pony can’t help laughing. 

-

“Your scar tissue is healing quite nicely. Tell me, are you experiencing any headaches or stomach pain?”

He and silence are lifelong friends, but Sodapop’s eyes dig into his back. “Sometimes,” Pony admits sheepishly.

“Do you eat well?” Doctor Stage’s lenses are a newer prescription, the frames a shinier gold. He likes them; they’re also a great focal point when avoiding questions he doesn’t want to answer. “Healthily? Do you take your prescribed vitamins?”

"Uh, yeah," Pony says. "Darry makes me take 'em regularly. I try to eat good."

"He's improving," Soda promises.

"Keep working on it," Doctor Stage smiles, warm and safe and reassuring. His kind hand on Pony's knee and it doesn't feel scary. It doesn't echo touches from before. "You're doing great, son."

"I thought so too," Sodapop tells him proudly.

-

“Michael?” 

It shouldn’t alarm him. A former teacher of his spots him at the supermarket. He’s with Two-Bit, trying to keep his friend out of pickpocketing every item he finds noteworthy. 

But it’s also not his name. It’s been banished from Ponyboy’s household. Darry and Sodapop never say his full name, where as before when he was younger and not so damaged, it might have been in warning. Now it’s nonexistent. 

He pauses over a pyramid of stacked soup cans. Turns and watches Ms. Wiley contemplate if he looks different or not. Wrong kid, he prays. 

“That’s… that’s not my name,” Ponyboy tells her quickly, shaking his head. “Hi, ma’am. How… How are you?” 

Two-Bit flanks him, pretends to study the floor beneath his shoes. He prods Pony’s side and steals the grocery list Darry compiled for them. Gives him privacy and Ponyboy nearly begs on his knees for him to stay. 

“Oh, shoot,” Ms. Wiley says, waving at him. “Nonsense, no need to call me ma’am. Although, you always were very polite, Michael. I’m fine, just fine, thank you.” 

He swallows. His skin is on fire. He itches and he needs to run and there’s absolutely nowhere to go. He shoots a glance in Two-Bit’s vacated direction. 

“Ponyboy,” he corrects shakily. “That’s real good news, Ms. Wiley.” 

“How have you been, my dear? Are things still going well between you and your older brother? What was his name… Darren?” 

“Darrel,” Pony informs her. His lips reconsider divorce and zip up tight. He backs away slowly. “I gotta go, Ms. Wiley. Have a night night.” 

“Oh! Goodbye, Michael! I’ll see you around, yes?” 

“For sure,” he promises faintly. Teeth gritted, he’s half-way around the next aisle when he realizes he didn’t grab any cans of soup like Darry asked. 

“Some fuckin’ lady, huh kid?” 

He jumps at Two-Bit’s words, and then turns and burrows himself into Two-Bit’s leather jacket. He smells like cigarettes and booze and all things unholy but it’s the best damn thing Ponyboy’s ever smelled.

“Woah, kid!” Two-Bit’s hand cusped around his shoulder blade. “You alright?” 

“Can we go home?” 

“Shit, kid, ‘course we can.” 

In the car, Two-Bit’s silent for most of the ride home. Tearing into their driveway as he’s always done, spraying gravel and destroying lawn, he throws the truck into park. 

“Kid,” Two-Bit says, ponderingly. “You think she’d know it was me if I slashed her tires?” 

Pony’s not sure whether to laugh or cry so he sorta just does both. Wipes his eyes on his worn sweatshirt sleeve, relieved it still smells like his and Sodapop’s closet; mainly, his older brother’s cologne. “I dunno,” he says thickly. “Keith, you think Darry’d be mad if I helped you?” 

It’s Two-Bit’s turn to laugh. 

-

“Did Two-Bit convince you to slash an old lady’s tires?” Darry asks him at dinner that night. 

His expression is one he reserves to Sodapop coming home from a party. Not so much tipsy as actually inebriated. 

Then just general confusion. The not so unspoken, _“Why would you do that?”_

“No, Dar,” Pony smiles, genuinely. “Two-Bit was tryin’ to cheer me up.”

Soda’s laughing so hard he’s close to choking. His surprised yet pleased grin glows radiant, eyes alit. He’s just heard of this now. “Are you serious?” He grins from ear to ear. “Two-Bit offered to help you get away with slashin’ someone's tires and you said _no_?” 

Darry cuffs him around the head, glaring. “Pony, what did I tell you the other day about ornery?” 

He mocks forgetfulness, one fingertip digging into his lower lip. “I dunno, Dar, I think I misheard you… You said be ornery like this one, right?” 

Darry’s head finds his hands. Shoulders heaving, barely constrained humor bleeding through his facade of anger, he sighs, “No one ever listens to me.” 

The front door slamming and Two-Bit slinking cat-like into the dining room, head peeking around the corner. Steve trailing him. The wolves have come for dinner. 

“I listen to you, Soda!” He says, so honestly it’s staggering. Kicked puppy Two-Bit when the three Curtis brothers end up roaring giddily at him. 

“Was it somethin’ I said?” 

-

When Ponyboy dreams, it’s of the staircase in the Marshalls’ dwelling. He sees the endless, carpeted steps stretching forever upwards at an angle, growing increasingly darker as they fade into obscurity. 

He never knew what was a floor above.

-

“You’re the only one who’ll take me,” Pony tells him quietly. “Darry and Soda will be too worried, and Two-Bit doesn’t wanna get an earful for doing it.” 

Steve’s fingertips digging into his eyelids. “Kid, this is a monumentally bad idea.” 

“I know,” Pony says. “But I… I need to know.” 

“Know what? That they were fucked up people who did horrible shit to you?”

“I need you to take me to the fuzz,” he says, soft. “The police report doesn’t mention it.” 

“Mention what?” Steve shakes his head, grabbing his keys. Hope flares. “No, you know what, don’t tell me what freaky ass shit that disgusting perfect did. Just - get in the car.” 

Pony’s heart races. “Really?” 

“Yes!” Steve’s teeth are gritted but it's nothing compared to his iron-grip on the steering wheel once they’re settled. “Goddamnit, kid. What the Hell is this gonna be?” 

Gingerly, halfway into town, Pony mumbles, “A saving grace.” 

“Damn better hope so,” Steve swears lowly. “If it ain't it's my ass that gets the shit kicked out of it.” 

“I wouldn’t let them do that to you,” he murmurs. “‘S my fault anyways.” 

“The getting stolen from your family part, or the convincing me to do something I’ll pay for later part?” There’s no heat in Sodapop’s best friend’s narrowed glare. Just frustration. 

Most importantly, not directed at him. Pony could sing praises all day long. “I trust you with this,” he says noiselessly.

Steve’s fingers are a hair less tight on the wheel. 

One of the officers who rescued Pony takes him to his back office. Steve grumbles in tow. 

Officer Nix smiles at him, strained. Pony’s sure this isn’t a happy reminder for either of them. Certainly not a normally welcomed custom for him too. 

“What can I do for you, son?” 

He stares at a dried ring of black coffee residue. “I want to see the investigation report for my case.” 

No wobble in his voice, no visible fear emanating from him, and Ponyboy knows he chose the right person to bring along. Subconsciously struggling to impress Steve does wonders for a person’s confidence. 

“I thought you were given one when you were in the hospital?” 

“I was,” Pony says. “The shortened version. I want the real deal.” 

“Son, I’m not sure it’s in protocol for you to view a report that doesn’t include you,” Officer Nix’s gaze narrows, brows furrowed. “Actually, I know it’s not.”

“It involved him when the damn bastard roughed the kid up,” Steve growls. “Just give him the damn report and we’ll get out of your hair.” 

“I’m not so-”

“You’re not sure,” Steve mocks, surprising Ponyboy with his fury. “We get it. Give - him - his - report.” 

“Or else?” Nix sure isn’t friendly any longer. 

“Or else the situation gets taken care of,” Steve vows, arms crossing his chest. The wolf that tracked dinner to their kitchen table nights ago has returned for vengeance. 

“Are you threatening an officer?” 

But Steve doesn’t back down. He shakes his head, slyly cleans beneath his fingernails with a small blade he procures from his jean vest pocket. 

“Nah,” he says indifferently. “But things sure would go swell if you handed over that report like I asked.” 

Something sparkles in Officer Nix’s eyes. Uncertainty maybe, realizing that Steve’s threats are very real. Fear, most likely, understanding that Steve’s promises are always kept, his plans always carried out at peak precision. 

“Fine,” Nix spits, digging around in the file cabinet beside him. Tulsa’s big but he finds Pony’s name quickly and tosses the paperwork at him. “Now get out of my office.” 

“Pleasure doing business with you, Boss,” Steve winks. 

In the car, Ponyboy holds the report in his lap and wonders if he should delve into his nightmare at all. 

After all this time, he’s still barely coping with menial, day to day tasks. School will be Hell if - when in Darry’s eyes - he returns. A job? He might as well kiss it goodbye. 

But then he thinks about Steve’s selfless sacrifice, and he knows he has to read it. Regardless of what it says, Pony will find the strength to survive.


	9. spies from imperial china wash in with the tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is just some fanart as requested by my close friend ponyboymichaelcurtis! <3 
> 
> i know it's not the greatest and the scars aren't completely realistic, but i did the best with what i could. i made one without a filter and another with.
> 
> i don't own the model i used, nor the photoshop filter (or the program itself) i used just for fun. i also don't own the outsiders which is devastating haha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 10/17/19 = they lost ALL of their clear quality upon upload to imgur. i am very sad and sorry. 
> 
> <(;^;)>
> 
> (it needs a hug)

[unedited/original](https://imgur.com/7RWF8WN)

[warm filter](https://imgur.com/dVvOiHN)

[other filter](https://imgur.com/wxzIDCU)


	10. every battle heads toward surrender on both sides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> once more, this is just some fanart! i promise i am indeed working on the next chapter. thank you all for your patience and wonderful, kind words. they are deeply appreciated and they warm my heart daily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is hurt pony in the hospital, although not necessarily for this fanfic. the head wound is the one from after the rumble, so we'll just say that's where the drawing stems from. 
> 
> the other is just some cartoonish fanart of our boys. soda isn't wearing a shirt because he hates socks and shoes, has neglected pants often enough that steve has to remind him to wear them, and has been seen without a t-shirt on multiple occasions. so yes, he is shirtless. pony is pale because tommy howell is pale. also darry is just cute and tan.

[ponyboy in the hospital](https://imgur.com/poKnQ0j)

[some cartoonish boys to love](https://imgur.com/nVx1igZ)


	11. and i am coming home to you,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! sorry it's been so long. i'm suffocating in college and my life is falling apart, but hey. at least i'm trying. i'm trying to care for myself more, and writing definitely helps! i notice all these mistakes in my last chapters and i feel so sorry you guys have to read through them! i promise i'll keep brushing up on all of them. while this isn't near the end yet, i'd say there might be four/five/six chapters left? don't worry, ponyboy's gonna get his better ending! 
> 
> much love to my best friend soulmate, ponyboy curtis, or ubiquitous. <3 i love you dearly! thank you for all your kind words and support.
> 
> kudos to those of you who read this and actually find something in it worthy of your time! thanks for all your support and your patience! 
> 
> anyways, onward to chapter like 9/10, due to my drawings taking up space lol. got some more for you guys if you want to see them sometime??

“Darry?” he says. The manilla envelope is heavy in his hands. The weight of it reminds him of everything he has and hasn’t yet escaped. 

“Yeah, Pony?”

“I got my report,” he says slowly. 

“Report-” Darry’s expression shivers. “What about the ones we got before? How did you… Who took you to the station?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Ponyboy shrugs off the concern and lays the envelope on the coffee table beside the newspaper. “But… But this isn’t just about me. This is one is about a different part of… of my time there. About the upstairs.”

Darry swallows, leaning forward in his recliner. “Have you read it?” 

He shuts his eyes. He thinks about the faith he’s putting in his oldest brother. The trust he’s relying on. Pony blinks. “No,” he says.

“I don’t have to read this if you don’t want me to, baby,” Darry swears, beckoning Ponyboy closer. He hesitates, but kneels beside the coffee table. 

“You can open it,” he says quietly, shifting both legs. He doesn’t tell Darry that he didn’t do things first, but he’s pretty sure that both he and Sodapop know anyways. 

Darry watches him, but opens the envelope. 

It takes him twenty minutes to read through it all, flipping between documents and photographs. By the time he finishes, it’s Darry who’s pale and sickly. Darry who pulls him off the carpet and draws him onto his lap and squeezes him too tight. 

It’s Ponyboy who lets him.

-

That night, curled against the warm spot Sodapop’s vacated for a glass of water, Ponyboy hears his brothers whispering through the walls. 

“I don’t know how he got it,” Darry says. “But Jesus fucking Christ, Soda. I thought the first report was bad enough.”

“What? What’s this one about?” 

“The sick son of a bitch had an upstairs, Soda. You remember the house? Pony mentioned it once, about not going up there. I’m so glad he didn’t, little buddy. I don’t know if I could have gone up there either.” 

“Did,” Sodapop hesitates. “Did he read it?” 

“Not yet,” Darry’s grim, the hiss of another beer being opened. “Soda, I don’t know if I ever want him to. I know it wouldn’t be right if I didn’t. But I keep seeing it over and over - all that shit. I don’t know how he lives with it in his head.” 

“Fuck,” Soda says, muffled by his hands. “Dar, let me see it.” 

“It’s in my room on the dresser. I didn’t want him to worry about the guys seein’ it.” 

“Good,” Soda says, making no move to retrieve it. The couch settles, and Pony knows they’ve both sat down. After a few minutes of silence, when he’s almost lost to sleep, he hears his older brother begin to cry. 

“These pictures,” Soda’s voice wavers. He must have found the report after all. “Dar, I’m gonna be  _ sick _ . All these kids...” 

“It’s okay,” Darry soothes. “It’s okay, little buddy. I was too.” 

“How does he - this shit is all up in his head?” 

“I don’t know that this is,” Darry tries to console, “But yeah, the shit he told us was just the tip of the iceberg, Soda. I thought he wasn’t doing too well, you know? But Christ, if this goddamn mess was anywhere near him, he’s more of a miracle than I thought.” 

He covers his ears. No matter how many times Ponyboy’s brothers may say it, he knows he’ll never measure up to it. 

When Sodapop comes back to bed, believing Pony’s asleep, he sits up and watches him for a very long time. In the darkness, their figures illuminated by the moonlight, he breathes in and out, very slowly, and the warmth returns. Soda curls around him when he lays down. 

In his ear he whispers, fingers stroking almost imperceptibly through his hair. “Oh, Pone,” he murmurs, kissing his brow. “Oh, honey… I’m so sorry.” 

In his mind he echoes,  _ me too, me too _ . 

-

There are a thousand ants crawling on his skin. Half asleep, Pony moans and tries to scratch them off. They march across his head and over his chest, burrowing betwixt his ribs and into his sinuses. He opens his mouth to shriek but they smash his vocal chords to pieces. Nest there, burn and burn and  _ burn- _

When he wakes, Sodapop is holding him down by his wrists, Darry standing, hunched over both of them. 

“It was just a nightmare,” Soda soothes, voice cracking. His lower lashes are wet and Pony’s own face is damp with tears. A streak down each cheek; he wipes feebly when Sodapop lets go. “You’re alright.” 

He pants, sniffs back a tidal wave of emotion. “Did I scream?” He asks hoarsely.

Darry’s distraught expression imprints in him. He shakes his head, then his whole frame out. “No,” he swallows. “Just cried. Silently.” 

“I thought your nightmares weren’t as bad,” Sodapop’s face is grim and pained. “I’m such a fool.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Pony squeezes his eyelids shut. “I didn’t want to.” 

“How long have you been having nightmares, kiddo?” Darry sits down beside him, furls an arm around his spine and pulls him close. Soda follows. 

“They never stopped,” he says. His voice wobbles. “Not before, and not after.” 

Silence, and then the sound of the bed creaking. A few seconds later, his brothers are squishing him too tight in between them, deeply upset by his words. 

He has wounded them. Ponyboy is so sorry. 

Darry’s hands are strong and they still waver. Soda’s lips find his ear, his temple, his brow. He fights through his tears and he clings back, a fistful of each shirt. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” he cries. “I didn’t have either of you there. I’m  _ glad  _ I didn’t. But sometimes when I wake up I still think I’m alone in that house.” 

“Never again,” Soda croaks. “I promise, honey.” 

“I won’t let them hurt you again,” Darry swears. “I won’t let them take you.” 

“I know you won’t,” Ponyboy says. 

-

  
  


Ponyboy dreams of Dallas Winston the most. He can’t quite figure if it’s their shared traumatic backgrounds or their not quite so friendly former friendship. 

Dallas visits him every night. He always finds him on a park bench, a cracked sidewalk beneath their feet. They meet under the light of a dying yellow sky and Pony’s hands never tremble here. 

Most of the time, Dallas is silent; watching, waiting for him, preparing for the unknown. Occasionally Dally will tell him about his death. How he’d robbed and been shot, how he bit the dust with Pony’s name on his ruby stained lips. But he already knows how that story ends. 

Sometimes, Pony wakes squirming in his bed, the mattress damp with sweat beneath him and Sodapop’s too heavy arm thrown over his chest. The heat of it reminds him of the church fire, of cigarettes illuminating the dark. The hefty weight of it a reminder of another body once pressed cruelly against his own.

Other times, Dallas speaks of Johnny and Buck’s fiery red convertible. When Ponyboy asks him to illuminate, he comes to in the backseat clinging to leather he doesn’t own. 

Neither he nor Johnny laugh at Dallas’ terrible driving. 

-

“You have therapy at three,” Sodapop tells him, swinging car keys and tapping his foot. In the doorway, he stands outlined by the rising sun. 

Where the light touches his skin he suddenly becomes a god. Pony knew this all along, but still it takes his breath away. “Okay,” he echoes lamely. 

For a moment, he can’t remember why he goes to see a psychiatrist. Then the door slams behind Sodapop and he understands.

He jumps. Watches Steve appear around the corner on his way for Darry’s breakfast. His own stomach curdles. 

“I’ll pick you up and take you,” Soda tells him, softer this time. He hedges closer and sits beside Ponyboy on the couch, letting him curl up into his flank. His knees ache beneath him, but he favors his brothers’ comfort always. 

“We could go out for dinner,” Sodapop continues, eyes tracking Steve on his trek back through the living room. Morsel of cake in hand, he nods to Pony and spirits on out the door. 

Turning to him, Soda’s gentle, cupping Pony’s cheek briefly in his palm. “Try to have fun,” he smiles, although it hardly reaches his gaze. “I’ll be back early for lunch, alright?” 

“Okay,” Ponyboy repeats. When he looks up again, Darry’s eyeing him from the kitchen, pointing a spatula at him. It’s rusted and reminds him just how much his brothers have given up in order to keep him. 

“You hungry?” Darry asks, flipping an egg. Before this past year, he’d be chowing down, eating as much as his namesake. But he feels full all the time now. 

He supposes it’s what happens when one gets used to being empty. 

He shakes his head wordlessly, earning a worried frown for his effort. Soda always slings a blanket over the back of the couch and Darry always keeps it clean. He tugs it down over him, slips down onto his side. 

He didn’t sleep very well. Too preoccupied with his thoughts. Like now, he figures, although it’s never his intention to let his mind wander. It feels inevitable. Inescapable. 

Darry plops down beside him, plates in hand for both of them. A single hard boiled egg for Pony and a slice of plain toast. 

“It’s easy,” Darry promises. “Won’t hurt at all.” 

He’s grateful, but he knows he’ll take one bite and lose it. He shrugs the blanket up higher, snuggles closer to Darry’s left thigh and presses his face into denim. 

“Dar?” He asks. 

Mid bite, Darry pauses. “Yeah, little buddy?” 

“Can I see those photos?” 

“I don’t know if it’s such a good idea,” Darry’s eyes are closed when Pony risks looking up at him, his expression taut and jaw tight. 

“Why?” He doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, tenses. “I heard you and Soda.” 

“Oh, Pone… I’m sorry. We didn’t keep you up, did we?” 

“I can’t sleep anymore,” Pony tells him wearily. “I just feel sick.” 

“You might be comin’ down with somethin’,” Darry observes, purposefully veering off topic. “You are a bit warm.” 

“A different kind of sick,” Ponyboy mumbles, though they’re both very aware of the truth. 

“I know,” Darry’s voice is husky, low and broken. “I know, baby. I just don’t know what to do, and it kills me.” 

It’s rare that Darry admits he’s scared. It should startle him too, that his oldest brother and guardian is as equally at a loss for words. But somehow it comforts him. It makes him an equal. 

Wordlessly, he closes his eyes when Darry’s hand finds his shoulder blades. Eventually, he says, “We’ll figure it out, baby. I promise.” 

“I believe you,” Pony says, and holds on to Darry’s vow.

-

After a particularly bad therapy session with Ms. Amana, Pony stands alone in their bathroom. He can hear Sodapop with Steve and Two-Bit, most likely discussing why Ponyboy even sees her in the first place. 

Despite Soda’s anger, Pony knows it’s not really her fault. Maybe society doesn’t know enough about the world he’s inadvertently created. Maybe they just don’t get him. 

He finds the face staring back at him in the mirror and blinks, hollow. Pony’s still gaunt and the lack of hunger doesn’t help any. He traces the scar at his temple once more and remembers the taste of oxygen filling his lungs for him. Remembers the tang and smell of blood and the eruption of it in his lungs; corrupting, containing. 

He lifts his shirt and runs his fingers down ribs too prominent. Tries to picture himself healthy, happy, and fails. Sometimes, his bones ache, and he can feel Mrs. Marshall’s pills on his tongue. Once, he found the same brand at the pharmacy; Soda called his name and he went to him, trying to remain sane. 

Darry used to buy sleeping pills. He’d never put Pony on them, and he sure as hell won’t now. But he thinks of them, cursing them and salivating at the sensation of Mrs. Marshall’s drinks flowing down his throat. They bring a different kind of sleep. 

It’s not a type he craves, he tells himself. He’s just really tired and sick at heart right now. His brothers would say the same thing. 

So why doesn’t he believe it?


	12. with my own blood in my mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been far too fucking long, but i finished my first semester of college and am almost done with my second. i know it's horrible to have kept everyone waiting. i always told myself i'd never been like those authors who wait months (or years) to continue a story. but i understand now more than ever. 
> 
> life is hectic. life is fragile, and precious, and goddamn, aren't we all lucky to be alive? you never know how much time you get. remember that.
> 
> since last november, i almost lost my brother to suicide. he called me, after calling my dad who didn't answer. that's one hell of a thing to live with in your head, i fucking promise you. january 13th. if you've lost anyone to suicide or to corona or just anyone at all recently, i'm so sorry. so sorry beyond imagination. i am so lucky my brother is alive. 
> 
> this is more stuff for pony trying to cope with what happened. it's a progress. i am not sure how many chapters i have left, but i was thinking maybe 3 more or so. i have many other outsiders fanfics i wanna write for me and for all of you to enjoy. this chapter is not very long, but i am preparing for other longer chapters ahead.
> 
> thanks for listening to me rant. onto the story:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a small note as always: i do not own the outsiders, just this story idea. not the characters, just the art shown in previous chapters. i have plenty more art, but it is less based on this story and simply about the outsiders in general. however, if people are interested, and i can figure out the right coding for it, i'll think about uploading a fanfic on here simply made of drawings.
> 
> trigger warning for past rape/non-con, child abuse, drug use, alcoholism, and basically what is mentioned in the tags. be safe and know i love you all.

The phone rings in the evening.

Darry looks up from the newspaper, pale. He says, “Soda, get that will you?” 

Sodapop bites his thumbnail and shifts on the couch next to him. Opens his mouth and hesitates. Pony tries for levity, rolling his eyes. “I’ll get it,” he mutters.

The voice on the other side of the phone isn’t one Pony expects to hear. 

“ _ Kid _ ?” Jim says, and Pony’s stomach jolts. He crumples at the knees, startling Darry, but keeps his hand up in a vague gesture for “a-okay”.

“Jim,” he croaks, so startled and happy at once he feels like crying. “Where have you been, man?”

“ _ I should be askin’ you that, kid! I checked by the home like a month after I left, and they said you’d been up and adopted. _ ” 

“It was Hell,” Pony says simply, paling. Doesn’t bother to correct him about the adoption part. Hell doesn’t even begin to cover it. “Actually, just - where’d you go? Your buddy said you were out explorin’.” 

Soda taps him on the shoulder, sets him on edge and apologizes with those chocolate eyes.  _ Important? _ He mouths.

Pony nods hurriedly. When he blinks, slow and hard, both of his brothers have left the room to give him some privacy. 

“ _ Aw, shit, kid _ ,” Jim says, voice taut and tortured. “ _ I didn’t mean to disappear on you. Just got that taste of freedom, you know? Had to drink it down as fast I could. _ ” 

Continuing, he adds, “ _ You savvy _ ?”

“I savvy,” Pony swallows, feels his throat close up. “Jim, come get me.”

“ _ The Hell? Kid, I ain’t helpin’ you run away from somethin’ _ ,” Jim says, gruff. Pony can feel his eyes on him even over the phone. He tucks his head against his knees. “ _ Didn’t you get into a whole buncha shit runnin’ away before _ ?”

“It didn’t work before,” Pony says, unsteadily, “It’ll work this time.” 

“ _ No, it won’t _ ,” Jim says, and with a clarity that only he can manage, adds, “ _ Ponyboy Curtis, you’re obviously home now, and I can bet your brothers are worried as shit as is. Don’t be like me, kid. Don’t run from your problems. They follow you, I swear on it. _ ”

“How do you get over it?” Pony gulps. He finds a loose thread on his jean and yanks it loose even though Darry will be upset.  _ Power _ , he thinks.  _ Choice.  _

“ _ Over the shit cards you’ve been dealt _ ?”

He nods, knowing Jim can’t see him. There’s a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. 

“Y _ ou don’t get over what you’ve been through, kid. Not when you’ve survived what you have, losin’ your best pal and such. Plus whatever bullshit you were put through by the system _ ,” Pony pinches his thigh and shifts from his knees to his ass. 

Jim Edwards says, “ _ You don’t get over what you’ve been through, Ponyboy. You move on _ .” 

-

Soda says in the doorway, “Was that Jim?”

Tense and shivering, Pony pulls his head from his knees, hoping to God Sodapop won’t notice. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “He called to… to talk, I guess.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Pony says, then clears his throat. “Yeah, I do. He’s like… He’s like you and Dally combined. Good and wild all at the same time.” 

Soda comes close enough to sit on the couch beside the phone, reaching to stroke the top of Pony’s head with his fingers. “Sounds like he’s pretty fun,” his brother admits.

“He’s… He’s gonna visit sometime, I think,” Pony says, sniffling. He knows he shouldn’t have to ask but it’s ingrained. “Is that okay?”

“Pony,” Soda’s gentle expression morphs into sorrow. He could play comedy and tragedy all at once and Ponyboy would still be enamoured. “Course it’s okay, honey.” 

“Okay,” he nods, and climbs slow-like onto the cushions beside Sodapop. “Soda, you ever get… really uncertain about stuff? Like… Like a lot?”

“Sometimes,” his brother admits, like it’s a secret, and it probably is. Ponyboy’s not stupid. “I think part of that is what you’ve been through though, baby.” 

“It’s so much sometimes,” he whispers. “Like my head will explode.” 

Soda tucks him close, cradling him underneath one arm, his hand soothing at Pony’s waist. He tucks tighter, legs drawn up further. 

“I won’t let your head blow up,” Soda promises, and flashes him one of those perfect grins. It’s almost enough to make Pony smile back.

Almost. 

-

He thinks, very briefly, about killing himself. It’s a split second thought and it makes him drop his glass of water, and he watches, although he hears nothing, as it shatters on the kitchen tiles.

When his hearing returns, Two-Bit’s cursing and trying to coax Pony away from as many shards he can without touching him. 

“Kid,” Keith says, offering Pony his hand, gesticulating at the floor in front of them both. “Goddamn, kiddo. Your feet are already bleeding.” 

“They are?” Between his toes, Pony spots blurred red. 

He thinks,  _ I don’t want to die. _ Then,  _ why is that so hard to believe?  _

Mr. Marshall returns from the grave.  _ C’mon, Michael. You can do this. Just pick up the glass. Nice long cuts, down the road. Just a quick walk down the road. It won’t even hurt. _

“Get out of my head,” he mumbles, and Two-Bit looks up at him briefly, terrified, before squinting. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, irritated, but Pony watches him clean up the glass he can anyways.

When finished, Two-Bit carries him back to the couch, narrowly avoiding knocking over his beer on the coffee table. Pony’s feet are sore, the pads starting to tingle. 

He flinches as Keith inspects his toes. 

“Your brothers will be off work soon,” he comforts, gently spreading his middle ones apart to judge the webbing between. “I don’t think any glass is stuck in there. You’ve got a tiny cut on one foot; it looked a lot worse than it was.”

“Thank you,” Pony says, and then swallows. “I’m sorry for breaking the glass.” 

“I don’t care about the glass,” Two-Bit says. “I’ve seen worse, kid.” 

“I know,” he says, faintly. “But I broke it.” 

“It’s fine,” his buddy says. “Really, Pone. Don’t worry about it. Darry can get more out of the garage, remember?”

“When you get through all of those,” Two-Bit teases, “then I’ll start worrying.” 

Pony thinks,  _ what did I do to deserve you? _


End file.
